


On the Devil’s Path

by missbeizy



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Assault, Barebacking, Blood, Blow Jobs, Felching, Forbidden Love, Infidelity, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Rimming, Snowballing, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-10
Updated: 2015-09-10
Packaged: 2018-04-20 03:52:40
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,607
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4772498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kurt, a successful stage actor, was married to a wealthy businessman who had subtly taken control over every aspect of his life.  After Kurt’s husband pressured him into a life in the country, Blaine was hired to be his personal assistant/bodyguard.</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Devil’s Path

It began like so many other fairy tale romances, with eye contact made across a room at a party. At first glance, Kurt knew his life was about change.  Remy Tarantin was well known in Broadway circles as both a wealthy patron and longstanding lover of the arts.  Being gay in such company was by no means a rarity, and Kurt was not surprised when eye contact led to Remy sliding a glass of champagne into his hand.  By the end of the evening they were in possession of each other's phone numbers.

It was easy to become smitten with Remy, despite the fact that Kurt had no idea what he did for a living besides "business" and confidently throwing money at whatever hobby or cause struck his fancy.  Remy was the monogamous type, romantic to a fault, but also knew how to relax and have fun, which took the stress out of the getting-to-know-you dating phase.  His financial and social status were constants throughout, but never ostentatious; he was simply a successful business man who adored theater and was becoming invested in Kurt in more ways than one.  

They fell in love.  The sex was fantastic.  The networking opportunities were many.  In only a few short years, Kurt went from the chorus to leading roles.  He learned to ignore the accusations of nepotism, which were common—while it was true Remy was helping to pave the way for him, it was his talent and ambition that carried him along that path.  He was not going to allow jealous tittering to hinder the progress of his career.

Three years in, Remy proposed a move from their cramped (as far as he was concerned) Manhattan loft to a large home upstate he had inherited from a relative who recently passed.  Kurt was between shows, bored out of his mind, and when Remy told him he could have the entire place renovated and decorated with no thought paid to expense, he almost swooned.  He'd dreamed of doing something like that his entire life and, that summer, he essentially lived in the house—designing, hiring vendors, and supervising crews of workers.

Leaving the city was a big change.  He and Remy often went days without speaking, and weeks at a stretch without seeing each other.  After three years, Kurt found this acceptable, even normal.  If they were going to build a life together, time apart was necessary.  A solidly developed sense of individuality was the cornerstone of any healthy relationship, Kurt felt.  He powered through the times when he felt lonely, and didn't complain.

Remy was different at the house than in the city.  Kurt found him to be quieter, more distant, and less affectionate.  Perhaps he wasn't a countryside sort of guy. Month by month, the suave man he'd fallen in love with continued to change.  At first it was subtle lapses in the normal pace of their conversation and mutual physicality—the presence of a new tension that made words stiff and unfamiliar and led to a withdrawal of the needy, wanting draw between their bodies. A redefinition of personal space that smacked of a lessening of affection and happened so gradually it took Kurt a year to truly notice it.  By the time the home renovations were complete, he and Remy were bickering more often than not and their intimacy slowed to a trickle.

The second year in the new house, they had a revival of sorts.  Remy began to stay at the house instead of spending half of his week in the city, and Kurt breathed a sigh of relief.  They bounced back sufficiently, had long, meaningful conversations, learned how to restructure their relationship to match the waning initial burst of romantic attraction, and for the first time since they moved Kurt felt as if they were settling down.  At the end of that year they vacationed in Europe, and at the final stop in Paris, Remy staged an elaborate marriage proposal with the help of a theater company they had been mingling with.

Kurt had never been never so happy.  They had struggled through their first rough patch and come out of it stronger.  He was working, doing what he loved, had the dream home he had always wanted, and a gorgeous, older man who appreciated and adored him.  He said yes without hesitation.

They were married a year later, so extravagantly that half of New York City became aware of it. There was press coverage.  Kurt drowned in offers of auditions and parts; even television and movie producers were knocking on his door.  Remy was a great source of advise and guidance, encouraging Kurt to stick to the sort of roles he felt most passionately about, and so Kurt remained on Broadway and close to home.  Remy never seemed enthusiastic about him going out to LA or even abroad to scout roles or management, on the off chance that it might be something Kurt could be interested in later on.

Kurt only wished his father and stepbrother had survived to see his happiness and success blossom.

The mansion upstate became his domain.  After several years, Kurt was very used to being there almost all of the time unless he was working or vacationing.  Remy was often away on business, but this never presented a problem—Kurt had his space and Remy his, and when they came together they made room for the other.

At twenty-nine, Kurt finally began to feel as settled as his age and experience allowed him to be.  Things had slowed down in many predictable ways—they partied less, had sex less, and were generally less dependent on constant contact with each other, but they were a happy and effective unit in most areas of life.

And then something happened.  Kurt wasn't sure what, exactly; Remy would only tell him that a business deal had gone sour.  The following season, Kurt struggled to be cast.  When he asked Remy why their diverse patronage was suddenly absent, he received a sharp reply that it was nothing he had to worry about, and why hadn't the guest bedrooms had their decor changed to suit the cooling weather?

Kurt fell back on his own devices, reverting back to the audition and networking techniques that had launched his career.  He was generally capable on his own in regards to this process; he had been a successful stage actor before Remy had come along.  But going back to this strategy after years of upper class patronage was difficult, and Remy was suddenly very negative about it all, encouraging Kurt to focus on their domestic life instead.

"We have a beautiful home here," he would say. "Why don't we go over the specs for the new pool?"

Like wind eroding a cliff face, Remy brushed and buffeted Kurt's choices and life, until at last right before his thirtieth birthday and just after his first gray hair, Kurt found himself working only occasionally and for pleasure, instead spending his time at cocktail parties or at home.  Remy had recently suggested they discuss surrogacy or adoption, and Kurt was both curious and terrified.  He wanted to be a father, but he had never engaged with the idea practically, and he hadn't known Remy wanted children that soon.  Kurt agreed they ought to do it before they got into their forties, but were they really ready now?

The walls were closing in a bit tighter, a bit sooner than Kurt had expected them to. He wondered when this happened—when his dreams and social life reflected Remy's vision of them instead of his own. He couldn't recall the last time he'd spoken to his stepmother or visited one of his friends or done anything just for himself.

And then there were the men in the house.  At first it was just a pair—employees in crisp suits who Remy referred to as his "associates".  He assured Kurt they were at his disposal if he needed anything, but he was never quite sure what they were there to do.  Two become three became four, five, and six, and before he knew it, Kurt was hardly ever alone, even when Remy was absent for weeks at a time on business.

The first time Remy came home and met with these men in private for hours on end, Kurt lingered too long near the room trying to eavesdrop and was caught.  Remy physically dragged him upstairs.  Kurt had never seen him that upset.  Remy let him go with a jerk and he winced.  He felt a bruise forming around his wrist.

"What's the matter with you?  I'm home an hour and you're already breathing down my neck," Remy said.

Kurt frowned. "I was just looking for you.  What's the big deal?"

"Organizational meeting.  Look, I'm taking the boys back out with me.  I have an engagement in the city."

Kurt had no idea why Remy would need an entourage for a business meeting, but he wasn't about to question it—the time when he would poke and prod for information was long past.  He didn't recall exactly when asking questions became off-limits in their relationship, but there they were.

Kurt was so used to "the boys" around the house that the thought of being without them left him feeling bereft.  A few of them were very friendly and willing to make small talk when Kurt was lonely or bored, which was often—socializing had become so high brow for them that Kurt couldn't hope to find laid back human interaction with the people who moved in their social circles.

Remy noticed the expression on Kurt's face. "I've brought on another man to stay behind when we're not here.  You know, a driver, fetcher, doer type.  He'll take you out, carry the shopping bags, whatever you need."

Kurt's pulse quickened.  That agitated him.  He wasn't in the mood for a new face.  He wanted to know what in the world Remy was up to—ever since the decline in theater work, Kurt had the feeling something had changed, that Remy was perhaps not engaging in legitimate activities.  On the other hand, Kurt was scared of the truth, and lonely for the man he had fallen in love with.  He wanted Remy to stay home, and didn't understand why he couldn't or why, when he did, he was so angry and different.

Remy stroked his wrist apologetically, and then kissed the darkening mark his fingers had left behind. "I'm sorry, love.  You caught me at a bad time."

"I miss you." Kurt frowned.  He didn't often allow himself to catalog exactly how much time they were spending apart, or how long it had been since they had slept together.  He'd lost track, and his body and mind had almost forgotten what it felt like to want and be satisfied.  He'd become numb to many things in order to convince himself they were happy and everything was okay.  He sighed.  What was the point of even caring?  Remy would continue to do whatever Remy wanted to do. "What's this new guy's name?"

"Blaine Anderson," Remy replied.

 

*

 

Their house wasn't so big that Kurt could avoid running into Blaine Anderson.  And it wasn't as if he wanted to, exactly—it's just that Kurt had never been very good at the whole business associate, free-for-all assistant relationship dynamic.  He didn't need to be assisted or taken care of, but at this level of wealth it seemed an unavoidable entanglement.  Remy had never given him a choice about it, at least.

He put his face on and got dressed and spent his morning attending to the usual correspondence and household management (arranging social events was a constant, ongoing process) until around noon, when he was served lunch poolside.  After digestion and a swim that was more exercise than leisure, he showered, changed, and exited his and Remy's bedroom, only to walk straight into another person.

A person about two inches shorter than himself wearing an Armani suit and strictly styled dark hair.

Kurt stared into the prettiest pair of hazel eyes he'd ever seen, framed by triangular eyebrows and lush eyelashes.  His gaze immediately dropped down to the plump pink mouth below, which was spouting apologies.

"Mr. Hummel! I didn't see you there!  My apologies.  I'm—"

Kurt exhaled. "Blaine Anderson.  It's a pleasure." They shook hands.  The bright eagerness in those eyes forestalled whatever awkwardness Kurt had anticipated.

"Your husband asked me to let you know that I'm in the blue guest room, in case you need me and can't get me on my cell, but I assure you that won't happen so you've got nothing to worry about." Kurt suppressed a smile.  All of that on one breath was impressive, and Blaine's enthusiasm was contagious.  His concerns about their introduction faded instantly. "Is there anything I can do for you this afternoon?"

"Well, if we're going to get anywhere, you might want to start with letting go of my hand," Kurt said, a dry flavor to his tone.  He only said this in an attempt to relax Blaine with humor—he rather liked the warm, strong grasp of Blaine's fingers around his.

_And oh, what a dangerous thought._

"Oh, um, yes, of course."

Both of their faces were flushed when they broke apart.  Kurt led Blaine to the sitting room on the first floor with the piano and a sidebar stocked with cold beverages.  

"I have to finalize arrangements for our anniversary party," he said. "I'd appreciate an escort, but you can stay in the car if you'd like."

"I'm not hopeless when it comes to that sort of thing.  I'd love to help."

Kurt began to play a simple tune on the piano. "You should be sure of that." He smiled, but narrowed his eyes in playful challenge at the same time. "I'm known to be ruthless when it comes to event organization."

Blaine, on second glance, took a moment to settle around Kurt's expectations.  Most of Remy's men were bulky, nondescript types, a range of races and ages and dispositions but always somewhat forgettable in terms of appearance.  Blaine, though—Blaine was gorgeous.  Classically handsome.  Compact and lean and put together but not in an intimidating way.  It was his face that truly drew Kurt in, its soft, sparkling openness coinciding perfectly with its inherent prettiness.  Blaine had to be near Kurt's age but seemed like a boy, his fingers fidgety and his presence youthful.

"On second thought," Kurt said, "I have a feeling you'll do just fine."

Blaine smiled.

Kurt's heart raced.

 

*

 

They settled into a routine in the weeks that followed, meeting after lunch and then at breakfast once Blaine realized Kurt liked to share his mornings, but only after coffee.  They chatted about their likes and dislikes, swapping details without getting too deeply into their personal histories.  With anyone else this would feel cheap, superficial, but Kurt loved the bits and pieces of knowledge he gleaned from Blaine, loved turning them over like bright chips of metal in his mind's eye without seeing the larger picture they formed. It left some mystery, which he had to admit was appealing, but mostly he was simply enjoying himself—he hadn't made a true friend in a long time, much less one who was gay and close to his own age.

It felt good. It felt a little  _too_  good, all told.  But he didn't think about that.

Once he learned Blaine played the piano he insisted they take their meals in the sitting room, and Kurt listened to Blaine play everything from the classics to adapted pop music, weaving back and forth between extremes in ways that had Kurt laughing until he cried.  Blaine was able to repeat this on a variety of instruments, and when Kurt learned he could sing, as well, it seemed almost unfair.  

They sang duets together.  As professional as Blaine was, he gushed about Kurt's voice at every available opportunity, and finally confessed to being a fan of his work.  The awkwardness of this was subverted by the fact that Kurt had had a glass of wine.  Blaine refused to drink "on the job" and so, naturally, a second glass was Kurt's duty; he had to provide some kind of vicarious living as Blaine's employer.  It was only polite.

"I knew you'd come around to that." Kurt rearranged himself on the lounge he was sitting on, adjusting the cotton robe down his legs.  Blaine wouldn't get in the pool with him, either, but was wearing a neat pair of slacks and a polo shirt in deference to the setting.  A second glass of wine had Kurt's eyes wandering, though he tried to control himself.  What self-respecting gay man could resist the crisp lines of those slacks falling over Blaine's muscled thighs, or the enticing bulge outlined in between them?

"I'll never mention it again, I promise.  I'm so embarrassed."

"Don't be. It's flattering.  Thank you."

Blaine smiled and smoothed down the hair at the nape of his neck.  The humidity of the indoor pool was causing the gel to lose its hold here and there, making wisps of frizz and curl stand out.  Kurt had to suppress the urge to reach out and fix them—or to dig his hands into them and mess them up beyond repair.  The thought made his belly swoop and his skin hot.

"Wow. Look at the time." Blaine gave the room a quick once over. "I'll be in my room if you need me."

Kurt held his breath for a moment, then released it.  He couldn't say what he wanted to say, couldn't confess that the things he was feeling for Blaine made him realize how stagnant and disappointing his relationship with Remy had become.  He knew it was silly—of course Blaine excited him, in the way new, attractive things always did.  Things of that nature came and went in a lifetime, but marriage was a commitment. Kurt was reading too deeply into this association; Blaine was, after all, being paid to attend him and maintain a sunny disposition.

"Good night," Kurt said.

All the logical thinking in the world, however, didn't stop Kurt from waking up drilling a hole in the mattress every morning thereafter.  He hadn't had morning erections that persistent since high school, hadn't blindly slid a hand between his cock and the bed and fucked his fist until he soaked his underwear while fantasizing about a person who wasn't Remy in years.  Remy was no slouch in bed and had a delectable body, but Kurt couldn't remember the last time they'd had sex of any kind of note.  The occasional blowjob was the highlight of their recent intimacies, the best Kurt could hope for, nothing like the first few years when he woke up with an ache in his ass almost every morning, feeling sweetly used and perfectly taken care of.  Other things had come into play, replacing frequent copulation—emotional bonding and commitment and talk of the future.

Now all he thought about was Blaine.  Blaine's soft, full mouth, Blaine's capable hands flying over ivory piano keys, Blaine's muscled legs, Blaine's round, tight ass—

He came into the mattress hard enough to draw a moan from himself, which almost never happened when he masturbated, and rubbed against the mess with languid little jerks of his hips until his dick ached.

He thought, laughing at himself, that maybe he simply needed to get laid.

 

*

 

Kurt and Remy's anniversary party was the social event of the season.  

Kurt had seen to almost every detail, but large swaths of the guest list were beyond him. When he asked Remy about it he received vague replies; if Kurt never heard the word "associate" again it would be too soon.  Other than that, he was content with the final product.  The food, music, and decor was as impressive as expected.

Remy was in high spirits, and dragged Kurt into an adjacent room to kiss him senseless and present him with the keys to a new car.  It was not precisely what Kurt had hoped for—more than anything, a return to steadier theater work and a discussion of adopting a child were what he'd been thinking of—but when Remy lifted him up onto a desk and went to his knees, Kurt lost the will to protest.

It had been so long.  His body was burning, aching to be touched, and Remy was thorough, took his time and made Kurt come hard enough to curl his toes.  Missing, perhaps, was the intense connection they'd shared when they were younger, but that was only to be expected.  Wasn't it?

Remy exited the room first, giving Kurt time to rearrange his suit, but on his way out Kurt ended up bumping into Blaine and more or less giving up the game—his flushed face, mused hair, and crooked tie said it all.  Blaine's face was red.  Kurt wondered if he'd been drinking, despite his insistence on staying sober in the house.

"S-sorry, I was—couldn't find you," Blaine blurted. "The dancing is about to start."

"Thank you." Shivering—being close to Blaine while his cock still throbbed was disconcerting—Kurt went to find his husband.

 

*

 

It was little things at first.

Remy closeting himself with strangers for long periods of time.  Shouting behind closed doors.  Noises Kurt couldn't identify.  People and vehicles coming and going at all hours.  Kurt never had any say over the money they shared—he had his own accounts, but Remy possessed the majority of their wealth—but he noticed large suns of money passing through their joint accounts.  He found a gun or two in the house, tucked away in drawers and behind pieces of furniture.  

Remy was home more often but grew distant despite that, the surge of romance that had blossomed between them during their anniversary gone almost immediately after. Kurt tried to engage him, to reach out, but more often than not he was rejected and left feeling pointless and hollow.

Blaine was gone on personal leave for two weeks, and when he returned Kurt didn't bother to pretend he hadn't been counting the hours.  He knocked on Blaine's door that very morning, and blushed to the roots of his hair when Blaine answered the door wearing boxer briefs, a loaded gun belt, and a smile.  He had bedhead and scruff and oh, god, Kurt could watch him walk away  _forever_.

"Sorry, I got in late last night." Blaine's voice was morning-scratchy. "Give me a second."

Kurt stood in the doorway, his lips parted, feeling as if his feet were stapled to the floor.  He was actually frightened of what he might do if he shut the door behind them, so he left it open while Blaine got dressed in the en suite bathroom.

"How was—um. Okay, I'm not sure where you went on your vacation, so."

Blaine laughed. He exited the bathroom, wearing a pair of black slacks but still shirtless.  Kurt handed him the garment, which was resting over the back of a nearby chair.

"Thank you." Blaine smiled. "I visited my folks."

"Oh. That's nice." He watched Blaine button his shirt, tuck it into his pants, and tighten his belt, watched all of that lovely, smooth skin and those tight muscles disappear.  His mouth actually  _watered_. "Uh, I'd like to go out today.  You up for it?"

"Of course. Where to?"

"I have a few errands I've been putting off.  Nothing fancy."

He didn't say that, more than anything, he wanted to escape the oppressive prison the house had become.

They went shopping, beginning with some clothing boutiques and ending with a plant nursery Kurt had been patronizing in the course of redesigning the landscaping around the front of the house.  He also had it in his head to put together a little floral arrangement to thank Blaine for all of his hard work, and slipped away from Blaine for a few minutes to ask a nursery employee to help him.

It happened so fast he never even saw it coming—two men in nondescript clothing flanked him and grabbed his arms.  He opened his mouth to scream but inhaled fumes and cloth instead and the world went dark.

He woke up hours later in the back of a van, terrified and disoriented.  He had nothing on him that he could use as a weapon, and his hands and legs were tied.  The gag he wore was roughly jerked from between his teeth, and he gasped for air as the ache in his jaw faded.  The men who were bold enough to snatch him in broad daylight were wearing ski masks.

"What do you want?" Kurt gasped. "I—"

The man to Kurt's right slapped him hard across the face.  Pain exploded in his head—his ears rang and his head went dizzy and he whimpered, tasting blood in his mouth.

The men asked him questions he couldn't answer, about men whose names he didn't recognize, and every time he hesitated to respond they hit him.  By the time they realized he legitimately knew nothing, he was bruised everywhere and shaking so hard he collapsed sideways onto the floor of the van.

He was very close to passing out when the strangest noise rung in his ears—and when it happened again and he felt the van sink, he realized someone had shot out the tires.  This sent his captors into a panic.  They began to argue about whether they should take him and flee on foot and risk getting caught or leave him behind.

"He doesn't know shit.  Leave him. It'll send the message as good as—"

"We were supposed to leave him closer to home, this isn't—"

"We also weren't supposed to be seen.  Crazy asshole with the gun is probably one of his.  Let's move."

"Okay, okay. Shit.  Shame.  Boys would've had fun with him."

"Jesus Christ, you're a fucking sicko.  Just  _move_."

Kurt was so dizzy and in pain that all he could do at that was roll onto his side and vomit until there was nothing left to bring up.  The two men climbed out of the front of the van's cab, and what felt like an eternity later, the back doors banged open.  Blaine, his gun out, made sure the vehicle was empty before climbing halfway inside.

"Kurt? Kurt!" He looked reluctant to have his rear unguarded. "Was it just the two of them?"

"Yeah," Kurt murmurs, coughing.

"I'm gonna get you out of here.  Just breathe for me, okay?  Does anything feel broken?"

"I don't—I don't think so."

"Okay, real easy, I'm going to get you on your feet.  We're gonna get to the car, as quietly as we can.  I have a first aid kit in the glove box."

"But we have to call the police," Kurt said. "Have to go to a hospital." He whimpered in pain with every uneven step as Blaine half-carried him across the huge, deserted parking lot to where they had parked earlier in the day. "They—"

Blaine sighed. "No police and no hospital, Kurt.  Mr. Tarantin's orders."

"W-what? Why?  Blaine..."

"You're going into shock.  Please. Please, just—stay calm."

Kurt passed out moments later.

He woke up to the most offensively garbed motel bed he'd ever seen.

"Oh my god, my puke is prettier than this," he groaned.  He was stripped down to his underwear, covered in bandages, and smelled like rubbing alcohol.  

Blaine came in from the bathroom carrying fresh towels and a glass of water. "Sorry. I had to undress you.  You were—"

"It's okay." Kurt rolled onto his back, wincing. "It's all superficial, I think." But the moment he allowed himself to remember, he began to shake—the glass shivered in his hand, spilling everywhere.  Blaine took it from him.

"Hey, hey, you're okay." A warm, wide hand coasted up and down his arm. "You'll be okay."

"They kept asking me about Remy.  I don't understand." His eyes grew wet. "He's in trouble, isn't he?"

"It's not my place to say," Blaine said. "It's—I'm sorry I wasn't there. I was supposed to be there."

"I was getting you flowers." It felt so stupid to say then, beaten and bloody. So stupid that he began to laugh, sending twitches of pain through his body.

Blaine's cheeks were flushed. " _Kurt_.  That—geez, that seems insane right now."

"I know, right?"

Kurt looked around for the first time then, taking in the decor that was just as unimpressive as the bedspread.  The room smelled like cigarettes and cheap bathroom cleaner.  Blaine was the most striking thing in view, flushed and wide-eyed. He must have been crying, because his eyes were puffy and red.  Kurt's chest ached with fondness.  He reached up to put his hands on top of Blaine's on his arms.

"If you hadn't found me, it would have been worse." His voice shook. "They—they were going to take me somewhere else.  There were others.  They were going to—to—they said—"

"Oh," Blaine whispered, clasping Kurt's fingers. "Oh, god, I—I'm—oh, honey."

The endearment ripped Kurt's remaining resolve to shreds.  Tears coursed down his cheeks and he rolled into Blaine's arms, closing his eyes.  He needed to shut down.  He couldn't think anymore.  

"I'm here now.  It's okay. You're okay," Blaine said.

And yet again, Kurt drifted into unconsciousness.

In the middle of the night he woke up to find Blaine asleep beside him.  He wasn't sure what those pills were that Blaine had made him swallow earlier but, whatever they were, they had worked; he felt steady enough to get up, give himself a careful sponge bath at the bathroom sink, and wrap himself in one of the motel's towels, which were a truly offensive thread count but better than the filthy underwear he'd been wearing.

There were protein bars in Blaine's first aid kit.  Kurt sat on the toilet seat and ate half of one, stopping when his stomach twisted, and then chased it with a few sips of water.  He felt marginally human again, aching all over but somehow more aware of how alive he was, having had that state threatened only hours ago.

He stood in the doorway to the bedroom, his body guiding haphazard shafts of light from the bathroom across Blaine's shape on the bed.  Even as hurt as he was, he still felt flushed at the sight—Blaine must have stripped his shirt off in his sleep.  Despite feeling silly and embarrassed, Kurt didn't hesitate to lie down next to him.

Taking everything into account, this was as safe as Kurt was going to feel from then on.

 

*

 

Kurt woke up feeling like death warmed over.  He hobbled into the bathroom to urinate, chased a pair of pills with a glass of water, and stepped back into the bedroom just in time to observe Blaine clutching the pillow Kurt had abandoned and smiling in his sleep.  Kurt's mouth would have curled into a matching smile if doing so didn't hurt so much.  He blushed when Blaine rocked his hips down into the mattress with a soft grunt.

Kurt carefully sprawled out on his side of the bed, tucked himself as close as he appropriately could to Blaine's body heat, and then yowled in surprise when Blaine's arm came around his waist and landed on a bruise.

"Oh, god, sorry." Blaine sat up, coming awake all at once.

"'S'okay," Kurt said, without turning over.  He was very conscious of the fact that he was wearing only a towel and Blaine was shirtless.

Blaine's hand came down gently on his side, splaying across his rib cage. "How do you feel?"

"Like two assholes beat the crap out of me.  What the hell is going on?"

Blaine sighed. "I honestly don't know.  Your husband gave me a long list of do's and don't's, but that's about all he gave me."

Kurt rolled over, sending Blaine's hand skittering across his belly. "What is he going to do when he finds out what happened?" He exhaled audibly. "God, I—I've had self-defense training.  I should have done something.  I  _wanted_  to fight, I could have—"

"You were bound hand and foot.  I'm not sure what you think you could've done, but..."

"What if he blames me for not getting away?  What if he just—"

Blaine's hand moved across Kurt's skin comfortingly, stroking from his ribs to his collarbone. "He may fire me.  But I'm pretty sure he'll just be happy to see you in one piece." Blaine pulled away, as if suddenly aware of his wandering hand. "Speaking of that, we need to get back before he starts to worry."

Kurt didn't want to go.  He wanted to stay with Blaine right here until the panic and fear faded a little. He wanted that hand back on his body. But he knew he couldn't have any of that, not without crossing a line.

Neither of them relaxed again until they made it back to the house, but even there Kurt wasn't afforded a moment to gather himself; Blaine went for Remy immediately.  Kurt knew Blaine felt guilty for allowing him to come to harm and wanted to explain and apologize.  He only wished they had more time before—

"Call Doctor Neuman," Remy barked, crossing the room to cup Kurt's face in his hands.  Blaine made the call while Kurt sunk into Remy's arms, wishing he could find comfort and safety there.  But there was nothing—just warmth and rigidity and the knowledge that Remy was not who he seemed to be, at least not entirely.

Kurt didn't know how to feel when the first thing Remy asked him after he had Blaine step out into the hallway was, "Did they rape you?"

Kurt felt the blood drain from his face.  His knees wobbled once before he straightened his legs. "What?  No.  No, they—"

"There is more than one kind of rape.  Did you—did they—"

Kurt shook his head rapidly. "No, no, god, no, they didn't.  I don't know what they  _might_  have done, but Blaine interrupted them."

The hesitation that followed that response and the fear on Remy's face solidified his belief that there was much he didn't know, and just as much he probably didn't  _want_  to know.

"Don't lie to me."

"I'm not! For god's sake, I wouldn't lie about that."

Remy's eyes narrowed. "Sit down.  I need to know everything they said to and asked you.  Doctor Neuman is one of my associates; we can speak freely in front of him while he examines you."

For one embarrassing hour, Kurt was poked and prodded by their family physician while being asked to report every detail of the ordeal he'd been through.  Dr. Neuman removed his clothing and examined every inch of him at Remy's insistence.  Knowing that Remy didn't believe him about having not been raped and was so concerned about it potentially having happened didn't make Kurt feel cared for—it only left him feeling cold, reduced to nothing but a piece of sexual property Remy wanted to make sure wasn't damaged.

After Dr. Neuman left, Kurt snapped. "Is that all you care about?  Is that all I am, just—a thing, just your  _thing_? When did we get like this, Rem? When did we—what happened to us? What's going on?  Why are these people willing to hurt us?"

"I have a business to run." Remy held him by his arms, as if that was enough. "And sometimes, yes, these things happen.  But I never wanted you anywhere near it.  That's why I bought this place.  That's why—"

"You—you said you inherited it."

"I lied," Remy shouted. "Okay?  I needed to distance us from certain parties in the city.  And that's all you need to know." His chest heaved. "This is how I provide for us.  This is our life.  I will do everything in my power to make sure that this doesn't happen again.  But I have to keep working."

"That isn't fair.  I have a career, too—"

"You have a career because  _I_  made sure you had one.  You remember that."

Remy left, slamming the door behind him.

 

*

 

Three nights later, Blaine brought Kurt a cheese platter and a bottle of sparkling cider.

"I know you're on pain meds, so I thought you might not want to mix," he explained, setting the plate and bottle down on the sideboard next to the piano, out of which Kurt was plucking a somber tune.  Kurt was dressed in sweatpants and a T-shirt in a public room of the house—proof that he was out of sorts.

"That's sweet of you.  Thanks."

Blaine sat down next to him. "How are you feeling?"

"Considering?  Okay. I feel a little bit less like tenderized meat in the shape of a person today."

"Glad to hear it." Blaine smiled. "I'm sorry if he was—less than kind."

Kurt shrugged, staring off into space. "I'm not sure I ever thought he was?  He's a lot of things, but I've never seen him act—nice." He looked up at Blaine. "Why are you apologizing for him?"

Blaine frowned. "I don't know.  I guess I felt like you deserved more." His shoulders fell. "I'm overstepping.  I apologize. It's just—I was there, and I was with you and saw how badly hurt you were, and I—I'll go."

Halfway to the door, Kurt stopped him by asking, "What were you going to say?"

Blaine didn't turn, but he did reply in a steady tone, "I thought that if that were me, I'd want to be comforted.  Reassured. I'd need that.  But he couldn't—he didn't give you that.  It made me sad."

Kurt swallowed heavily.  The sentiment hung between them, swollen with pain and understanding and ill-timed camaraderie.  And even though it hurt, Kurt wanted to thank Blaine for not trying to give him what Remy should have, but for acknowledging its absence all the same.

 

*

 

After the incident, Kurt's life became even less his own.  

Remy wouldn't let him leave the house without an escort.  He was lucky his escort was Blaine, who at the very least understood his needs and habits, but beyond that the situation was unbearable.  Kurt couldn't work, couldn't socialize and, worst of all, Remy began sleeping in a separate bedroom when he was home, thus denying Kurt what little comfort intimacy could bring.

It had been such a slippery slope, this decline in Kurt's freedom, from the first time Remy guided him toward this or that producer and away from this or that show, to today, when he couldn't go shopping for socks without Blaine shadowing his every step.  The friendly ease between Kurt and Blaine waned under this arrangement, replaced by the sternness of Remy's orders and the threat of attack hovering over them.

To his credit, Blaine tried—he would bring Kurt his favorite snacks when he knew Remy was somewhere else in the house and wouldn't notice the pampering, draw Kurt out into the sunshine for exercise, and play music for him when it was too cold or rainy outside to leave the house.  

It was as if they were in some strange holding pattern, the two of them trying to do what was expected of them without acting on the feelings brewing just below the surface. Kurt wasn't sure if Blaine felt for him what he felt for Blaine, but he ware sure Blaine was completely aware of what he had to live with every day.

In terms of recovery, Kurt healed quickly, nursed back to health more by virtue of his own stubbornness than anything Dr. Neuman did or prescribed.

Their entertainment options became even more limited as winter deepened, and cabin fever as well as depression set in.  Kurt watched the marks on his body fade from bright colors to pale, sickly browns, oranges, and yellows.  The butterfly bandages came off.  The sutures were removed.  The wrapping around his bruised ribs was unraveled.  He looked at himself in his floor length mirror at night, naked as the day he was born, shivering and pale and a bit too thin, and wondered if Remy was right to think the assault had tainted him.  

Or perhaps Kurt was simply tainted regardless; tainted by his choices,  tainted by his decision to marry a man who saw him as someone would could be manipulated, who was worthless, who would lie down and take whatever was offered to him because it was easy, or extravagant, or came in the guise of a dream come true.

Anger felt better than despair.  Better than the blankness of depression.  

It was almost as if Blaine could sense the way Kurt felt, because he only grew sweeter as the weeks passed, as if he was trying to counteract Kurt's negativity all on his own.  

Kurt sought him out even when he wasn't aware of it.

Late at night Kurt would stand outside his bedroom door and listen to him sing upbeat pop songs as he did whatever it was he did to amuse himself in the evenings (Kurt tried not to interrupt Blaine's personal time).  Once or twice Kurt fell asleep sitting on the carpet in the hallway there, Blaine's voice soaking into his starved skin and bones, saturating him with a brand of relief that was more the tease of a reward than anything else.

He remembered what it had been like to sleep beside Blaine, to feel the touch of beautiful, gentle hands which had offered acceptance and safety.  He remembered Blaine had been easier with him in the days that followed, carefully touching his cheek or arm or side to note how quickly he was healing, how resilient he was.  It was strange, because Kurt didn't feel that way at all even though he knew, logically, that he  _was_  strong.

The disconnection between logic and belief was widest when he had to close it for his own good.

 

*

 

Remy held a dinner party and invited his business associates.  Kurt was told in no uncertain terms that he had to attend. So he played host, decked out in a shimmering suit, his skin once again flawless and not a single hair out of place.  He made conversation and laughed at all the right times and introduced the courses until he felt like screaming at the top of his lungs.  To be engaged and stared at by so many men who were nothing more than widgets in the machine of his husband's business (whatever in the world it even was) and cared nothing for him made him sick to his stomach.  Gone from the table were their theater and musician friends, their doctor and lawyer friends.  Gone were the friendly faces.  Gone were the people Kurt could trust.

Toward the end of the evening Kurt noticed that there were even a few men among the crowd who were not-so-subtly flirting with Remy, who did nothing to discourage the sneaky touches and overly bright smiles.  The room spun around Kurt, a whirl of color and sound which brought to bear the weight of an ocean wave, drowning him not in malice but as a matter of course—a simple inevitability.  He held it together long enough to politely retire, though Remy still shot him a glare. He wasn't surprised when Blaine followed him out of the dining room, Blaine's dress shoes beating a smart tattoo against the marble floors all the way to his own room.

Kurt stopped outside of his door.

Blaine observed their destination. "Kurt?"

"If I go to my—our room, he'll just come in drunk later to tell me off for leaving the party early."

Blaine hesitated but didn't stop Kurt from following him inside.  

Blaine's room was neat, largely decorated as it had been when Kurt had overseen the renovations, but it possessed touches that made it distinctly Blaine's—the smell of his cologne, a bow tie draped over the back of a chair, and a guitar in the far corner.  Kurt wondered why he never thought to seek sanctuary there before, but stopped wondering when the familiar, tempting, masculine presence of Blaine began to sink in.

Kurt was red down the collar of his shirt by the time he sat in an armchair near the window, still brimming with leftover anger from the dinner party—anger that was rapidly simmering down into something else entirely.

Staring out across the flawlessly manicured lawn shrouded in darkness, Kurt said, "That night we spent in the motel together was the best night of sleep I'd had in years." He inhaled to steady himself, but couldn't look at Blaine as heat spilled down the back of his neck and up along his ears. "I was battered to all hell, in pain and sick from the painkillers, but I slept like a damned baby."

Blaine walked across the room and leaned against the wall on the opposite side of the window. Kurt felt him trying to make eye contact and resolutely continued to look away.  Kurt's jaw was trembling.  He had no desire to cry, but the power of his recollection was making him shaky.

"I'm not sure why," Blaine said, carefully, slowly. "I let you get hurt. I still haven't forgiven myself."

"There's nothing to forgive." Kurt finally looked up at him, shocked to find tears in  _his_  eyes for once. "I gave you the slip.  It wasn't a smart thing to do.  Can we just—can we please move on from that?  I can't stand the thought of you feeling bad for something you had nothing to do with."

Blaine's jaw worked, one difficult rotation, and his eyes shimmered as he made an obvious effort to stop the tears from falling. "Okay.  I'll try."

The wool blue plaid suit Blaine was wearing caught Kurt's eye, and he observed its neat lines for a moment in an effort to calm himself.  There was a slight crook to Blaine's tie, and Kurt's fingers twitched in his lap as he imagined reaching out to straighten it, to run his fingertips down its softness before using it to tug Blaine close, to curl his fingers around the knot and work it loose, side to side and then undone, the fabric whispering free of Blaine's collar, Blaine's chest rising against Kurt's palms as an excited breath filled his lungs.

Kurt wet his lips.  Allowed the hunger for Blaine to wrack his body.

Blaine stared at him as if there was nothing else in the world worth looking at, then inhaled sharply, audibly, and stood up straight, away from window's edge. "If he finds you in here, he's not going to be any happier."

"Are you kicking me out, Anderson?" Kurt attempted a playful smile.

Blaine smiled back. "More like giving you options?"

"I didn't have much fun tonight.  The least you could do is ask me to dance."

"Here? Now?" Blaine's hands traveled into his pockets, as if they were suddenly unsure of themselves, but the look on his face remained open, engaged, interested.

Kurt walked over to the MP3 music player dock and switched it on, choosing something instrumental with a beat suitable for dancing.  Being the taller one, he assumed the lead, holding out a hand to Blaine. Blaine put a hand on his back, and the other into his.  They moved together, making slow turns on the plush carpet beneath their feet.  Kurt guided them expertly, his back straight and no hint of instability in his touch or timing.

After one song, Blaine put his head on Kurt's shoulder.  It only took one song more for Blaine's face to find the crook of Kurt's neck and shoulder, and another for their clasped hands to tuck in between their chests with their other arms around each other.  It felt good.  It felt right.  It was everything Kurt needed in that moment.

Kurt pressed his face against Blaine's hair and inhaled through his nose, deeply taking in the combined scent of Blaine's cologne, shampoo, and hair gel.  He shivered, hopefully slightly enough for it to go unnoticed.

"I slept well, too," Blaine whispered, when the silence dragged on for too long. Kurt stiffened.  Blaine's voice quivered with the confession, hushed and reverent and tortured. "Having you there, safe, with me..." His lips brushed Kurt's ear as he spoke. "Those fifteen minutes I lost you were the longest fifteen minutes of my life."

Kurt's right hand dragged up the back of Blaine's suit jacket, a struggle every inch of the way, his fist balling up around the material between Blaine's shoulder blades. When he turned his face against Blaine's, allowing their warm, stubble-covered cheeks to brush, Blaine went completely still.

"Don't," Blaine whispered.  Kurt felt the hot rush of Blaine's breath across his chin, the lack of space between their mouths, and his throat cramped up around a noise. " _Don't_. We can't."

Kurt's eyelids fluttered.  He pressed his lips to Blaine's cheek, then to his ear. "I know.  Shh.  It's okay."

Blaine's hand slid up his back, blatantly seeking a hold. "Honey—"

A loud shuffling of feet in the hallway interrupted them.  They sprung apart mere moments before the door opened to reveal one of Remy's men.

"Remy's asking for you, Kurt."

"I'll be there in a minute."

Blaine shrunk outside of Kurt's arms, hunching over around his midsection. "Go. Just go."

 

*

 

"Remy tells me you have a handgun of your own," Blaine said.

"I do. And I know how to use it," Kurt replied.

"He wants me to take you out to the range and make sure you're up to speed."

Which is how they ended up in earmuffs, goggles, and vests, shooting rounds at a private range thirty miles west of the house.  It was the first time they'd been alone in days, and Kurt couldn't stop himself from intentionally prolonging Blaine's instruction.  He didn't need it—he had always been good with the handgun—but Blaine's arms around him and Blaine's body against his felt wonderful.

After that, they bought hot dogs from a deli and went for a walk in a local park.

"I think it's amazing how one minute you're popping off bullets with flawless accuracy, and the next you're playing symphonies as delicately as any professional pianist," Kurt said.

Blaine laughed, choking on a bite of hot dog. "I'm decent with the gun, but I think you're being generous with the whole 'playing symphonies' thing."

They stayed out far longer than they intended to that day.  Remy gave Kurt guff about it later, but it was worth it—and who was Remy to argue, anyway?  He had assigned Blaine to be Kurt's personal bodyguard and escort, and they had only done as he had asked them to do.

A week later, Remy gifted him with a new handgun as one would present a bouquet of flowers. Kurt almost cracked up then and there—he wasn't sure whether he wanted to laugh or cry.  There had been a time when he would have expected flowers, and now he was hardly surprised to be presented with a deadly weapon instead.

"You must be vigilant, Kurt," Remy said.

Later that night, Kurt put the new gun away in the lock box in his closet.  He observed as he did that the ammunition inside was for the other gun he'd had, the one Blaine had taken away days ago.

"Kurt?" Blaine called, from behind his cracked open bedroom door.

"In the closet!"

"At your age?  I hope not."

"Close the door and get in here, dummy." Kurt laughed.

He tightened the sash on his robe and the flaps over his legs as Blaine stepped inside the walk-in closet, gently rattling a box of bullets in his hand.

"Looking for these?" Blaine asked.

"Actually, yeah.  I was putting my new gun away and realized I didn't have the right ammo." Kurt took the box, leaned up on tip toe, and missed the shelf by just enough to send the box tumbling sideways.  The bullets scattered everywhere, tinkling and rattling across hangers and shelves and carpet. "Oh, damn." He bent down to pick them up, and only had to wince once before Blaine knelt and began doing it for him.

"Your ribs. Be careful."

"I'm fine." Kurt held on to some closet shelving.  The overhead lighting was only partially turned on, so the closet was dimly lit, and Blaine's kneeling form cast strange shadows across the floor. Kurt stared at him shamelessly, struck silent and dumb by the sight of that neatly gelled head so close to his thighs, of those hands crawling capably from shiny bullet to shiny bullet.

A surge of greedy confidence lashed down Kurt's spine.  He didn't understand it—everything he'd been through in the past year hardly lent itself to the construction of any kind of confidence.  His husband had all but abandoned him as a lover and partner, and he couldn't remember the last time he had masturbated with any deliberation or appreciation for his own body.  That part of his life felt exceedingly past tense.

But Blaine had been under his skin for months, never quite escaping his observation, not even when they were apart, and there he was on his knees, picking up Kurt's mess so eagerly, so well.  It was like a metaphor for their relationship and Kurt's entire situation.  Kurt was so very tired of his situation.

He didn't think about the consequences.  He just gently smoothed his hand over the dome of Blaine's hair.  He forgot about the open door.  He forgot about the lack of privacy.  He slid his fingertips behind Blaine's right ear, breathing heavily as Blaine looked up at him, his thick eyelashes fluttering over darkened hazel eyes.

Kurt could tell that Blaine didn't understand, at first.  There was a crease of confusion between those adorably triangular eyebrows which only deepened when Kurt leaned back, bracing his weight on a drawer behind him and letting the folds of his robe fall open over his long, pale thighs.

A rush of breath spilled from Blaine's lips, seeping hot through the thin silk of Kurt's robe.  He craned forward on his knees like a believer at prayer, his face scrunching up and his hands coming to rest tentatively, respectfully on the outside of Kurt's thighs, as if asking permission.  Kurt had never been so turned on in his life—his chest and belly twitched with uneven breathing and his cock throbbed, so near to Blaine's face that it was almost torture.

Blaine wet his lips. "What—Kurt, what—"

Kurt pushed his fingers through the crisp top layer of Blaine's hair gel.  He was trembling, and growing hard so fast he could barely maintain a grasp on the sensation.  He was tired of denying himself, tired of pretending he and Remy had anything worth being faithful to, and tired of turning away from his desire for Blaine, which had been present from the moment they had laid eyes on each other.

This gorgeous, sweet, supportive man wanted him; the warmth of his skin and the emotion in his eyes as he struggled to put the breaks on told Kurt much of what he needed to know.

In the close air of the closet, with the noise of people talking down the hallway, Kurt tipped Blaine's face up and in until Blaine's chin brushed the front of his robe right above his swelling cock.  He didn't realize how vital Blaine's desire for him was until he questioned if he actually had it—Blaine was hesitating.

In a shaky, breathy undertone, Kurt said, "Touch me.  T-touch me.   _Please_."

"God," Blaine hissed, dragging his mouth across the strip of Kurt's belly that was bared between the flaps of his robe. "You are so gorgeous, I— _god_ , Kurt." Blaine rose to his feet with the precision of a gymnast, dragging his big hands up along the inside of Kurt's robe, mapping every inch of skin he could reach until he was standing, his arms sliding around Kurt's waist.

Kurt wound his arms around Blaine's shoulders and leaned down, breathing warm once over Blaine's lips before kissing them.  The connection was instant and electric—Kurt swore he could  _hear_  the crackle. He moaned, dug his fingernails into Blaine's shoulders, and allowed himself to be pressed back onto the drawer behind him.  Blaine bent to keep their mouths connected, lashing at the seam of Kurt's lips with his tongue as he cupped Kurt's face.

The feel of those strong hands wrapping around his jaw unleashed something in Kurt that he hadn't felt for a long time—he whimpered and spread his legs, wrapping them around Blaine's hips and letting Blaine's tongue into his mouth.  The kisses blossomed,  their tongues licking forward and backward, setting the rhythm for their lips and teeth.  Kurt's fingers grew sticky with gel, but he couldn't stop tangling them in Blaine's thick hair.

Blaine's fingers coasted down his throat, pressed his neck, then skirted sideways under the shoulders of his robe, pushing the material back.  It puddled above his elbows—heat snapped down his body, settling in his cock and making his hips twitch up.  Blaine kissed down his neck, open-mouthed and panting, obviously trying to be quiet as Kurt grew less and less so.

When Blaine began to sink to his knees again, Kurt whimpered and grabbed his shoulders. "No.  No, don't."

"Sorry. Sorry, I—I just wanted to do something for you."

Kurt was suddenly embarrassed.  Wanting it was one thing; casually phrasing it another.  He wanted to be plain.  He wanted to honor the ease between them with simplicity, but he didn't want Blaine to think it was something he requested as easily as he might ask for a salt shaker at the dinner table.

He closed his eyes and pressed their lips together, heat rushing his face and neck in waves as he whispered, "I haven't—Remy hasn't wanted anything but oral s-sex for—a very long time." He breathed, and breathed, and breathed, keenly aware of the rasp of Blaine's slacks against the smooth skin of his inner thighs, of his heels tucked under Blaine's pronounced ass, of Blaine's cock, hard as a rock and digging against his belly through two layers of clothing. "I just—I miss—" He rocked his hips, driving Blaine's bulge harder against him. "I miss this." He exhaled shakily, slotting his bottom lip in between Blaine's. "I miss it inside me, I miss—please,  _please_." He tugged the hair at the nape of Blaine's neck, his cheeks burning flaming red, his voice dropping even lower. "Fuck me.  Want you to fuck me." Asking for it destroyed a modicum of his pride, but he couldn't bring himself to care.  It had been too long—years since he and Remy had done it regularly, years since it had  _mattered_.

Blaine let out a noise that fell somewhere between a sob and a moan.  He reached behind Kurt, wrapped his hands around Kurt's ass and lifted him up, hauling their bodies together and sending Kurt's legs farther and higher around and up his torso.  Kurt was too big for Blaine to lift fully or effortlessly, but Kurt could tell he would try if given the chance, would without hesitation attempt to carry Kurt out of the closet and into his bed.

"We aren't alone," Blaine panted against Kurt's collarbone, where he was dropping kiss after sweet, suckling kiss. "I want to.  I want to so badly, but I don't want to rush." He kissed back up Kurt's neck, tugging on the skin beneath Kurt's ear with his teeth, making Kurt inhale sharply. "I want to  _hear_  you when you come for me."

"Blaine," Kurt moaned, arching his back.

"Something like that, yeah."

Laughing mid-whimper, Kurt succumbed to wave after wave of unfiltered joy.

 

*

 

Privacy of the sort that would allow them to be together freely was rare.  They didn't realize just  _how_  rare it was until they were desperately seeking it.

So they danced around each other.  They lingered over every meal, every errand, and every brief moment of relative quiet. They sat side by side, their legs pressed together, their skin burning.  They played the piano, their fingers brushing over the keys, their feet close on the hardwood floor.  They stole glances at each other across rooms and hallways, trying not to be obvious about each and every theft.

Kurt dressed for Blaine; pants and jeans and button-ups that hugged every curve and edge of his body.  He took care with his hair and his smile and the swing of his hips.  He wanted Blaine to be sure of his interest.

Closed doors sometimes went unnoticed for short periods of time, and when they were guaranteed that safety Blaine would come up behind him near a window or a desk or a bed and trace the lines of his back and shoulders before sliding his arms around his waist, pulling him close and kissing his neck until Kurt couldn't hold back the whimpers, couldn't stop himself from putting his hands atop Blaine's and holding on, as if that clasp were the only thing keeping them grounded in reality.

Blaine would say things that had Kurt's heart racing in seconds, sentiments Kurt hadn't been offered in years.

"You look so handsome today."

"You smell good."

"Are you  _trying_  to drive me crazy?"

Always whispered, always truthful, and always hitting Kurt exactly where he lived, in that  _wanting needing craving_  place that had been dormant for so long.

One afternoon Kurt gave in more completely than usual to the temptation of a locked door. Blaine was sitting in Remy's armchair near the armoire in the corner of their bedroom, wearing a button-up with the sleeves rolled up around his elbows.  The corded, smooth skin of his bare forearms made Kurt weak with longing. Kurt sat down over his lap and kissed him, intending to do only that and then get up.  But Blaine parted his lips and combed his fingers through the hair at the back of his head and the combined sensation zig-zagged down his sides and he whined and pressed their bodies together and lost himself.  They kissed for ten minutes, stopping only to breathe.  As risky as this was, kissing was nothing compared to the thoughts flooding Kurt's head.

He wanted to sink down onto his knees and bury his face in Blaine's lap.  He wanted to fill his mouth with Blaine's cock and let the surging, hard, hot thrust of it force his mouth to grow accustomed to it, wanted to become an object for Blaine's pleasure, knowing he would feel that pleasure translate into the purest sort of freedom.  He imagined Blaine coming in his mouth, the taste of it, the texture of it, Blaine's shaft throbbing with every pulse.  He imagined Blaine pulling his hair, pressing his head down, unable to continue being polite when his orgasm took him over.  Sweet, dapper Blaine revealing his ability to be rough through the greedy snap of his hips and how he would edge the head of his cock into Kurt's throat to feel the elastic hug of it milk him dry.

Kurt jerked off twice a day to deal with these fantasies and the denial that surrounded them as effectively as the bars of a cage.  It was the only time he felt even remotely in control, when his fist was flying around his cock and his mind was filled with filthy thoughts about a man who was not his husband.  It connected him completely to himself, and gave him a release he'd forgotten he could achieve.

 

*

 

Remy finally went on a business trip with a full entourage of his employees several weeks later. Kurt pretended to fuss at the announcement—acting, after all, was something he was very good at—saying that he had finally gotten used to having Remy at home, and now he was going to start disappearing again?

"Don't be difficult." Remy kissed the corner of his mouth in dismissal. "I'll only be a few days."

It was a good thing he wasn't capable of reading the thoughts that ran through Kurt's head.

The moment the parade of cars disappeared over the rise of their sloped, massive front lawn, Kurt's pulse began to speed up.  He knew Blaine was somewhere in the house, which was now staffed only by a skeleton crew, employees who would only show up at predictable times to cook and clean and would attempt to remain unseen and unheard even then.  They most certainly wouldn't come anywhere near the master suites to change sheets or vacuum or scrub the bathrooms unless Kurt was somewhere else for the day.  For the next few days he and Blaine could do whatever they pleased in certain places in the house, within reason.

He found himself strangely frozen, and most assuredly spoiled for choice.  He lingered so long in bed after his shower that morning that Blaine came to him instead of the usual opposite.  Kurt held his breath as Blaine closed and locked the door behind him.  He was wearing a tank top and track pants, a few wispy curls of hair escaping the gel around his ears.  He must have been in the gym, or used the indoor track, or—

Kurt smelled him, clean-sweat-tangy, from across the room, and almost moaned aloud.  He stifled the urge out of habit and sat up in bed, the Egyptian cotton pooling around his hips.  He hadn't bothered to put even underwear on after his shower, and anticipation had made his cock flushed and heavy.  

And Blaine was there, breathing rapidly from rushing across the house, the muscles of his shoulders and arms and chest bulging against the sheer white tank top. Kurt sat up straighter, put his arms in front of him, cupped his elbows and stared at Blaine from underneath his eyelashes.

"We can be anywhere you want." Blaine crossed the room. "Just tell me."

This was a consideration Kurt hadn't made.  The irony was, he didn't want to be anywhere else.

He drew up on his knees.  The sheets fell away, allowing Blaine to see every inch of his naked body.  He'd forgotten what it was like to feel powerful like this, ten times stronger than even the most exquisite clothing could make him, carrying the reality of his skin and bones proudly—a boast of the simplest kind.

Blaine's lips parted in surprise.  His eyes fell, as if compelled, down Kurt's body, as Kurt shuffled forward on his knees.

"I want you right here." He felt silly saying it, but also sure.  He sat back on his heels, spread his thighs, and palmed the slightly rougher skin above the slope where his pubic hair grew coarse. "In this bed." He slid his hand around the base of his cock, then lower, skirting his balls and pressing his fingers there, just behind, where he was warm and silky and already throbbing. "In me."

" _God_ , Kurt." Blaine fell to his knees on the edge of the bed and then promptly stopped, almost as if his desire to drink Kurt in with eyes was warring with his desire to touch and taste and take. He reached out unsteadily when the latter won, his fingertips dancing down Kurt's jaw, neck, and chest, his eyes glued to Kurt's stiffening cock rising up beside his clenching forearm as his fingers stroked between his legs. "We have time for anything. Everything."

Flushed pink down to his nipples and his pupils dilating, Kurt closed a fist in the material of Blaine's sweat-damp tank top and pulled him in, kissing him roughly. Aggression danced like a drug in his veins—he wanted this, Blaine wanted this, and they were going to do it.  He couldn't wait any longer.

"We can do everything later." He pressed their chests together and reached down to palm Blaine's cock through his track pants.  Blaine was at half-mast, hanging to the left, and deliciously big already.  Kurt whimpered and wrapped his fingers around the shaft and rubbed it, up and down, up and down.  Blaine's body radiated heat and he reveled in it, dizzy with being this close, with feeling Blaine's cock, which he'd only ever experienced pressing against him through clothing, respond to his touch. " _Later_."

Blaine's whole carriage changed, then, a decision made somewhere deep inside creating a synergy that snapped between them, and he became—more, somehow; bigger, stronger, asserting himself against Kurt's chest, taking him by his tiny waist and pressing him toward the center of the bed.  Blaine kissed him, lunging kisses that forced Kurt's head back, forced Kurt to hold onto Blaine's wide shoulders and, when Blaine pushed him down onto his back, drew a squeak from his throat.

"Wanted to be patient," Blaine rasped, "even the first time, I wanted—but you—" He huffed and groaned at the same time, pinning Kurt's forearms to the bed and kissing, quick and shallow, down his neck, his chest, and across his nipples. "Want to fuck you.  Want to be so deep in you, god,  _damn_ , just." He grabbed the tube of lubricant from where it was sitting not-so-innocently on Kurt's bedside table and set it near them, kissing a stripe down Kurt's belly.  Kurt whined encouragement.

Kurt couldn't recall ever wanting to get there that fast—all logistics aside, a certain level of relaxation and preparation was required—but his need was blind, a fumbling seeking thing in the dark, a heat pooling in his groin that was connected to the same heat that made his muscles clench and his eyes water and his heart race.  It made sense out of senselessness by making him want without concern or hesitation. He came alive.

He reached down and pulled Blaine back up and over him by the root of his curls, not stopping until he had that lovely mouth on his again.  Shaking, he wrapped his legs around Blaine's waist, and pushed Blaine's track pants down underneath the cheeks of his ass with his heels.

"Oh my god," Blaine gasped, rubbing his cock against Kurt's belly.  Kurt whined and bit the side of Blaine's neck, then the tender lobe of his ear.  He uncapped the lubricant tube and smeared a glob across two of his own fingers, opened his eyes as he wriggled his arm in between them, entirely for the pleasure of watching Blaine's awed, lustful expression when he pressed two wet digits inside of himself as if they were nothing. "Oh my  _god_."

Kurt bit his lip, pushed his fingers all the way in and then pulled them out.  It was uncomfortable, but he didn't care.  The fullness and stretch and the hungry look on Blaine's face more than eclipsed the burn.

"I could do that," Blaine said.

"I've been doing this in the shower," Kurt said, without regard for the offer. "Never bothered before.  But I couldn't stop thinking about you.  Your—" His body flashed hot and his ass clenched up, embarrassingly eager—and oh,  _god_ , he could feel his own heartbeat inside of himself. "Your cock." He closed his eyes, his head fallen back and his lungs working noisily. "Blaine.   _Blaine_."

Blaine was nearly hyperventilating against Kurt's shoulder.  He reached down and closed his hand over Kurt's, obviously seeking connection. Kurt shuddered when he felt Blaine's fingers smear through the mess he'd created, when one and then two of Blaine's fingers pushed into his ass alongside his own.  Blaine dipped in only shallowly at first and then, when Kurt relaxed, began gently hooking the full length of his fingers in and out with Kurt's until Kurt was finally able to take three and then four whole fingers with ease.

Blaine kissed the corner of his mouth as he moved and sweated and produced broken noises. "That's it.  There we go. So gorgeous." His lips dabbed the dimple on Kurt's chin. "How long has it been, honey?"

"Y-years," Kurt moaned, bending his legs and lifting them back toward his chest. His cheeks spread wide and their laced fingers sunk deeper and Kurt felt the movement and pressure and it was  _so much_ — "Oh!  Oh, god."

Without detaching, Blaine sat back and kissed the warm, quivering flesh on the inside of Kurt's knee.  Kurt could see him calculating, taking in the fold and retraction of Kurt's legs, the spread of his cheeks and the needy tilt of his pelvis.  Blaine was aware of how long it had been since Kurt had shared his body like this with someone else, and that understanding made all the difference in the world to Kurt.

Blaine trailed kisses down Kurt's inner thigh, rotated the angle of his wrist and began fucking in and out with his fingers while Kurt's remained still, buried, an anchor. He crouched lower, brushed his mouth against Kurt's lubricant-slick, puffy rim and then licked at it.  Kurt cried out.

"So hungry for something in there," Blaine whispered, licking dainty circles around his own fingers as they worked Kurt wider and wider open.

"Please!" Kurt whimpered.  With a frustrated whine, Blaine carefully edged his fingers out.  Kurt's ass closed up around his own fingers, but he was unprepared for the sudden and hungry application of Blaine's mouth that followed the retreat. " _Oh_. What are you d-doing?" Remy had never put his mouth  _right there_ , had never gone inside with his tongue, not even at the beginning of their relationship.

Blaine made a guttural noise, kicked the track pants from around his ankles, tipped Kurt's ass up and went face-first between his cheeks, licking into the stretched width of his ass, closing his mouth over Kurt's rim and sucking and kissing and licking until Kurt's eyes rolled back.  The sensations were endless—shivery and ticklish and shallow and too much and not enough at the same time.

"Oh my god, oh my god,  _oh my god_." Kurt dug his heels into Blaine's back.  Blaine released him with a wet pop. "Fuck me.  Can't wait anymore.  I'll—however you want me, I don't care—"

Remy preferred to fuck Kurt either on his belly or his hands and knees.  Kurt enjoyed those positions, so he'd never complained. But Blaine immediately kneeled up between his thighs, pushed his shoulders against the back of Kurt's knees, put his elbows down on either side of Kurt's head, and drew Kurt close.  He pressed their sweaty noses together and kissed Kurt's lips and felt down the back of his thighs, taking stock of the flexing muscles there, of the soft slope that ran down to where Kurt's ass split, to where his balls and cock hung.

It was close and intimate.  Kurt forced himself to keep his eyes open, to watch Blaine's hazel eyes fill with desire when his fingers found Kurt still warm and stretched and waiting.

"Mm, that's better," Blaine whispered, stroking Kurt's rim in gentle circles.

"W-want—"

"Yeah?"

Kurt's face flushed even hotter. "Want to watch you—go in."

Blaine picked up a condom from beside the lubricant tube, ripped the foil, pinched the tip, and carefully smoothed the latex down the shaft of his cock.  Kurt watched, enthralled, starving, shaking, as Blaine stroked himself and then pressed the flared width of the crown of his cock against Kurt's hole.  Kurt tugged on Blaine's tank top to distract himself, a high-pitched whine flooding the back of his throat as Blaine's cock sunk into his body, burning as it split him in half.  He worked the shirt up Blaine's torso and over his head, tossing it aside—just in time to watch Blaine's biceps and shoulders chord up as he grasped the back of Kurt's thighs to steady himself and pushed all the way inside until his balls came to rest against the cleft of Kurt's ass.

"Fuck," Kurt hissed, scraping his fingernails down Blaine's chest. "Fuck.  _Fuck_." Blaine stopped.  He stroked and kissed Kurt's thighs and belly, and then slowly rotated his pelvis, working his cock deep inside of Kurt. "Oh my god." Kurt's legs fell apart. "Oh my  _god_ , y-yeah—" The slow grind became a gentle rocking, and with a second application of lubricant, Blaine's fat cock fell out of him, then pushed back inside, freshly slick. "More."

Blaine smiled, sweaty and tousled and glorious. "Don't want to hurt you." His voice was thick with pleasure and unsure breathing and not a small amount of affection, but there was confidence, too—he knew exactly what he was doing to Kurt with these slow, deep thrusts.

Kurt couldn't stop staring at where they were connected, his own cock flushed, standing up over his stomach.  But this was Blaine's show, in a way, so he gave himself over to Blaine's pace.  He was rewarded a minute or two later when the drag inside began to feel good,  _really_  good, and Blaine's hips moved faster in response.

"Yeah," Blaine moaned, when Kurt reached around to grip his ass, to feel the muscles in those perfect globes move. "Yeah, like that." He breathed heavily for a moment. "Taking me so well, honey."

" _Ah_ —hngh," Kurt whimpered. "I'm good, I'm—" He felt the shift in Blaine's ass when Blaine began to actually  _thrust_ , just at a middle-of-the-pack pace. "Oh. Oh.   _Oh_ —" He lifted his heels to Blaine's shoulders, abandoning his grip on Blaine's ass in favor of reaching down to spread himself open.  Blaine moaned and fell deeper against him, braced one hand against the headboard and the other behind Kurt's right knee and moved incrementally faster, enough for Kurt to hear the light slap of his balls when they hit Kurt's ass.

That was only the start.  

Blaine ramped up slowly, so slowly that Kurt lost track of things somewhere in the middle. He only knew that at one point, their bodies prickling with sweat, Blaine put both hands on the bottom slat of the headboard and pushed Kurt's knees to his ears and began fucking him like a machine, hard and fast and barely pulling out.  He backed down slowly from that pace, only to work up to it again minutes later.  He repeated this what felt like a dozen times, testing Kurt's limits (which were, as it turned out, as flexible as Kurt himself).

Kurt's belly was a sticky mess of both fresh and dried pre-come.  His cock had been hard for so long that it actually  _ached_ , but Blaine kept fucking him, backing off, and then fucking him again, stopping only long enough to give his thighs a break and force his orgasm back.

Kurt's eyes were open more often than they were closed, but at some point his body and mind were so soupy and hot and blissed out he could only close them and take everything Blaine was giving him.  He forgot what it was like to be empty, to be just himself, to not be the other half of this whole they had created.  This augmentation, this bonding, was everything he had dreamed the joining of two bodies could— _should_ —be.

"Still with me?" Blaine peppered Kurt's face and neck with soft, seemingly endless kisses.

Kurt's eyelids fluttered. "Mm.  F-feels 'mazing."

Sweat trickled down Blaine's temples and neck to catch on and then drip lazily over the ridge of his collarbone.  He was flushed down to his ribs, his belly tight with exertion.  He reached down only when he had Kurt's attention and loosely closed his fist around Kurt's cock.

"Oh fuck," Kurt gasped.

Blaine stroked Kurt's cock vertical and then began pumping it. "Do you want to come? You don't have to, not yet." He kissed the pronounced bump of Kurt's anklebone, which was resting sweaty and vulnerable against his shoulder. "I can wait.  I can wait all night." But his hand kept moving, smart, tacky fingers catching along Kurt's throbbing flesh in all the right places.

Kurt's belly heaved as he tried not to fall apart.  But it felt too good and he was too close.  

Blaine's hips moved lazily, matching the pace of his hand. "Or I could keep going. Make you come on my cock."

Kurt watched the wine red tip of his cock weep cloudy fluid over the circle of Blaine's bobbing fist.  He tried to rise above the mounting sensation, warning spirals of tingling radiating outward from the base of his cock, making his balls draw up and his thighs tremble.  He felt little more than the deep, blunt, wonderfully filling sensation of Blaine's cock snug up inside of him, sending sympathetic pangs all the way up into his belly.

He moved weakly, managing only brief circular presses of his hips, his legs bent and splayed wide, his heels still perched—precariously sweat-slick—on Blaine's broad shoulders.

"Yeah? Like that?" Blaine's hand moved faster. "Gonna come on it?  Yeah, come on it, honey."

Kurt's sweaty hands closed into fists around the sheets. "Unh—ah,  _ah_ —B-B—y-yeah,  _yeah_ , yeah." The sensation crested the moment Blaine began fucking him and jacking his cock at the same time, coiling and then uncoiling in the span of two heartbeats, pleasure scalding Kurt from his cock down his thighs and across his pelvis as he came.  It was like taking flight—for a few seconds, he couldn't feel the bed or Blaine's body. Gradually, he became aware of the mess he'd made, sprawled and splattered in haphazard streaks all the way up to his chin.  

Blaine was staring at him, panting, frozen in place. "That was the most beautiful thing I have ever seen." Blaine released him when he grew uncomfortable, touching the lines of come on his skin as if they were manifestations of a miracle only he himself had been privileged to witness.

Kurt was beyond finished—he couldn't take a single thrust more.  It had been absolute perfection, but his body had limits, and all he wanted was to make Blaine feel as complete as he did.

He gently squirmed his hips, his belly rising and falling evenly, sleepily, between his ribs. He was so sated it was almost sinful, but Blaine was still hard.  He watched Blaine through heavy-lidded eyes.  He contemplated asking before acting but then recalled Blaine's willingness to satisfy his desires, and simply reached down to grasp the base of Blaine's cock.  Edging it out of his body was the strangest sensation—it was as if it had become a part of him, and when he was finally free of it he  _ached_ , so hard and deep inside he had to stifle the urge to press it back in.  But he powered through the sensation, carefully stripped the latex off of Blaine's cock, and then trailed his hand up the shaft.  

Blaine shuddered, exhaled, and fell forward, lying down on top of him. "I can't stop."

"Come on me." Kurt trapped Blaine's cock between their bellies with his hand. He stroked Blaine as best he could at that angle, but it was more the friction of their bodies thrusting together that gave him an advantage.  He lowered his voice, pressed his cheek against Blaine's curls and rasped, "Want to feel you come all over me."

Blaine groaned and pulsed and spurted in his hand and across his ribs, creamy white streaking over even brighter white in thick, sluggish ropes.

Kurt wrapped himself around Blaine.  He could barely breathe, much less think or speak.  His body ached.  His ass was still open, wet, and throbbing, inside and out.  He was covered in bodily fluids.  Blaine's weight bearing down on him was the only thing keeping him awake.

They didn't speak for a long time.  Blaine kissed the underside of his jaw.  Kurt felt their racing heartbeats slow together.  Finally, he put his hand on Blaine's hair and whispered, "Hi."

Blaine's smiling lips brushed Kurt's throat. "Hello."

 

*

 

While Kurt showered, Blaine made arrangements with the kitchen staff that their meals would be brought to them only at specific times and places.  When he returned, he took his turn showering and changing, and then they decided to go out.  Kurt rarely got to enjoy himself anymore, and so it was a sublime pleasure to go shopping, see a movie, and have a drink without worrying about Remy's rules or moods.  He and Blaine spoke largely of nothing of consequence, but were content to hold hands in the car, sneak kisses in dark corners, and disappear as completely as they could into crowds.  

Later that night, they switched from Kurt and Remy's room to Blaine's.  They watched romantic comedies until the middle of the night, dozing in between rounds of snacks and heated make out sessions.  

Kurt got as close to coming in his pants rubbing against Blaine's cock as he had since high school, gasping in shock and pleasure as Blaine's fingers massaged his ass and Blaine's teeth left marks down the side of his neck.  He loosened the hold his leg had on Blaine's hip.

"Oh, wow, whoa, I'm," he said, panting, laughing.

Blaine grinned. "Mm, I can tell."

"These are Versace jeans.  Have some respect."

"As you wish."

Blaine slid down the bed, undid Kurt's fly, fished him out of his underwear, and danced his tongue down the shaft of his cock before he could think to protest. He inhaled, a moan lurking at the back of his throat as Blaine's warm, wet mouth took him in.  

They shouldn't—they really shouldn't do that without a condom.  Remy had always insisted on them getting clean bills of health every three months, and Kurt hadn't had sex with Remy since his last round of blood work, but Blaine didn't know that, and how did Kurt know what Blaine got up to in his personal time—

Blaine's dark head bobbed, hungry noises breaking on the roof of his mouth as he drooled around Kurt's cock.

_God, that mouth._

"Damn." Blaine released him, laughing. "You're even bigger than you look."

Kurt blushed, angled his pelvis away from Blaine's mouth, and rolled onto his back. His heart was slamming against his chest at the sight of his spit-sticky cock resting heavily on his leg.  He realized no mercy was forthcoming when Blaine climbed on top of him, straddling his waist and bending down to kiss him.

"I love being with you." Blaine nipped down his jaw, all the way to his ear. "But then I get my hands on you—" He suckled at a patch of skin below Kurt's ear. "—and all I can think about is doing this."

Kurt cupped Blaine's ass and leaned up on his elbows to deepen the kiss. "We don't have all the time in the world." He dug his fingers into Blaine's back pockets. "I'm not precisely bothered by your one-track mind."

They kissed and rolled around for a while, Kurt thrilling at the feel of Blaine's jeans dragging over his naked cock and the ease with which their bodies moved together. He ended up on the bottom again, Blaine stretching his arms out above his head.  They laughed together at the aggressive yet coy look on Blaine's face as Kurt yielded.

"Mm, you know what I want?" Blaine asked.

"What?"

"I know you said you almost never did, but." He breathed hot and quick over Kurt's lips.  Kurt closed his eyes and savored the feel of Blaine's strong, compact body on top of his. "I would love to have you inside of me."

"Oh." Kurt unconsciously arched his hips in response. "Remy never—never wanted me like that." He slid his hands up the back of Blaine's T-shirt, finding the skin there hot and tight.

"There isn't a single way I could imagine I wouldn't want you," Blaine whispered, bending into his touch. "But we don't have to, if you don't want to."

Kurt twisted his hands in Blaine's shirt, dragging it up to expose his lower back.  He dipped his fingers past the waistband of Blaine's jeans, squeezing the high, tight mound of his ass.

"Have you  _seen_  yourself?" Kurt spread Blaine's cheeks apart beneath the cloth, already breathing faster. "I want to.  It's just been a long time.  I'm tremendously out of practice."

Blaine sat up over him, stripping his own T-shirt off the rest of the way.  His hair was a mess of partially gelled curls.  Kurt stroked his gorgeous chest from top to bottom, then plucked at the button and zipper on his jeans.  Blaine stood up briefly, long enough to slowly strip his jeans and briefs off.  He made every second a treat for Kurt's wandering eyes.  

As he sat back down and helped Kurt out of his clothes, he wet his lips.  He took Kurt in from head to toe.  Kurt could see his pulse pounding in his throat. "I'm happy to do the work." He reached over to take a condom and the lubricant from the bedside table.  Kurt couldn't stop staring at him, transfixed by the sweet, sexy sparkle of confidence in his eyes. "If you want to lie back—" He pressed Kurt down into the bed and took him in hand. "—and let me ride this beautiful cock."

Kurt groaned and wrapped his hands around Blaine's hard thighs. "Oh my god, yes."

A part of Kurt was anxious about doing it—he was already so addicted to Blaine, so invested in their time together.  Would being close to him in a new way only serve to deepen that connection?  As it was, what he and Blaine had wasn't without complication.  He wasn't sure of their future.  He was barely sure of their present.

But fresh desire was irresistible and so new after years of nothing.  Kurt trusted the way he felt, if nothing else.

He brushed his fingers down the crack of Blaine's ass, as nervous as he was excited.  

Blaine breathed unevenly as Kurt touched him. "Finger me?"

"Can I see?" Kurt blurted the question without thinking.

"Oh," Blaine hummed with a grin. "Mm, how can I refuse that?"

He turned, straddling Kurt backwards.  The mirror opposite the bed allowed them both to see more or less everything, but Kurt didn't want to risk missing  _anything_.  He wanted to see every hair, every inch of skin, and every flex of every muscle. Blaine granted his wish then, bending his back and looking at Kurt over his shoulder, his full bottom lip caught between his teeth.  The fold on his lower back where it bled suddenly into the fat, upward curve of his ass took Kurt from half-mast to throbbing hard-on in what felt like seconds.

"God, you are  _perfect_." Kurt dragged a lubricant-slick finger down the exposed crevasse, half-holding his breath as Blaine spread open for him, revealing the dusky brown-pink of his hole and the sway of his balls.  He took his time, stroking circles around Blaine's rim until it was relaxed and then gently angling his middle finger inside.

"Yeah," Blaine sighed, pushing back against the pressure. "Oh, yeah. Yeah, just—down." Kurt adjusted the angle and then added another finger, breathing heavier as Blaine began to rock up and down.  

Blaine's ass was a masterpiece.  Kurt should have found the way Blaine's big, plump cheeks closed up around his fingers and limited his range of motion at least nominally—or affectionately—frustrating, but he was hard-pressed to do anything but gawk at and appreciate it as it clenched and jiggled and grew deliciously flushed.

What made the situation truly urgent was the sight of Blaine in the mirror—his eyes closed, his expression showcasing the pleasure he felt, and his right hand stripping his cock, pacing himself as if he had to in order to not come quickly and all over the bed.  He was shaking, his muscles clenched and his breathing labored.

Kurt slowed the place of his fingers. "You okay?"

"I—it's been—" Blaine laughed.  The vulnerability on his face blending so sweetly with the affection in his tone elicited a response from Kurt that involved far more than the interest of his cock.  He felt so deeply for this man—and beyond the fear their situation naturally inspired, nothing about that felt wrong. "It's been a long time since it felt like this.  Sorry. I'm sorry.  That's probably more than you wanted to hear right now, I just—"

Kurt's heart slammed against his chest.  After putting a condom on, he guided Blaine up his thighs, bringing him close enough to feel the press of Kurt's cock against his ass.  He gathered another handful of lubricant, slicked the shaft of his cock, and smeared the excess over and around Blaine's hole.

"Kurt," Blaine moaned.

"That was actually—exactly what I needed to hear," Kurt finally replied.

"Oh." Blaine reached back to steady him, his hand trembling around the slick, hard shaft of Kurt's cock as it teased up and down the cleft of his ass. " _Kurt_.  I—can we—" His body weight shifted and his muscles quivered, as if he was trying to stop himself from sinking down in a single, greedy drop.

Watching their reflection through the mirror, Kurt wrapped his hands around Blaine's little waist and pulled him down onto his cock slowly, easy pushes taking him inside until Blaine sat down on Kurt's hips with a strangled moan.  Kurt breathed and clamped down on himself—Blaine's ass was tight and hot, and when those cheeks swallowed his cock outside as well as inside, Kurt put all of his focus on not coming like a teenager.

It didn't take Blaine long to realize the effect he was having on Kurt.  His face twisted with amusement as he began to move, watching Kurt first through the mirror and then over his shoulder.

"Good?" he asked, rising and falling.

Kurt's pelvis twitched. "Too good.   _Damn_." They only had tonight and possibly tomorrow morning before Remy returned.  Kurt wanted to make it last but had no idea how he was going to accomplish that—only a few minutes of Blaine's ass moving around him had him actively fighting off his orgasm.

"I'll go slowly." It was clear from the lilt of Blaine's voice he wanted that as badly as Kurt needed it.

As Kurt had lost himself when Blaine had fucked him, he floated ecstatically through fucking Blaine, his eyes wandering between Blaine's body in front of him and their bodies moving together in the mirror.  His pulse tripped to the rhythm of the pace Blaine set.  His whole body felt it when Blaine leaned forward, put his hands on the bed between Kurt's knees, and began fucking himself back on Kurt's cock with focused intent.

He moaned and put his hand back on his cock. "Tell me if it's too much.  Just need more.  Just a little more."

"I'm okay, I'm okay, it's—" Kurt braced his hands around Blaine's waist.  He gave himself over to the slap of Blaine's cheeks colliding with his belly at the end of every thrust.  He watched the shining pink of his cock disappear into Blaine's body again and again and again.

Watching Blaine chase his own pleasure was equally exciting.  Kurt held him open and fucked up into him as he came down, the mattress squeaking beneath them and Blaine's staggered gasps and whimpers filled the air.  He tensed up all at once, his muscles and veins standing out in stark detail as his orgasm hit—he didn't make a sound, only jerked and shot all over the bed, his ass seizing in rhythmic clenches around Kurt's cock.

When it was over, his body unwound.  He slumped forward, catching himself on his hands, laughing and gasping and shaking. The sweaty knobs of his spine were the perfect place for Kurt's fingers to settle.

"Okay?" Kurt wasn't sure what he was asking, but felt he had to say  _something_.  Blaine slid onto his knees and forearms, collapsing forward.  Kurt gasped and sat up with him, unprepared but willing to continue.

"Want you to come," Blaine whimpered, sticking his ass in the air. "Fuck me. Just  _fuck it_  into me."

Balancing his weight on his knees, Kurt ground back into Blaine, a whine dying on the roof of his mouth.  He fixed his gaze on their reflection in the mirror, on his own pale, lean body behind Blaine's bent form, on the thrust of his hips and the glide of his cock in and out of Blaine's ass.  Blaine's face was buried in the mattress, framed by the brace of his tense forearms, which were absorbing the shock of Kurt's thrusts.

Kurt fucked him until there was nothing but mindless friction and the inevitable rise of an orgasm that had been denied so many times it almost hurt to surrender to. When he finally gave in it tore down his spine and thighs, dragging sobs from his throat.  It lasted for what felt like an eternity, and when he opened his eyes he realized he'd fucked Blaine flat into the mattress and was nearly crushing him.

"Sorry, sorry." Kurt tried to lift up.

Blaine laughed. "I should have asked you to fuck me months ago.  Oh my god."

"Oh." Kurt blushed. "Um."

Blaine rolled over onto his back and away from the wet spots on the bed, taking Kurt with him. He dragged Kurt back down on top of him and kissed him, open-mouthed and filthy. "You are incredible."

But it wasn't only the sex, or how incredible it felt to once again experience something he vaguely recalled enjoying before he met Remy.  It wasn't the pleasant ache in his muscles.  It wasn't the affection dancing in Blaine's eyes.  It was the sum total of the last few days.  It was the knowledge of what they could be together.

The problem was, Kurt still had no idea what they were going to do when Remy returned.

 

*

 

They took turns showering.  Blaine swapped the soiled bedspread out for a clean one.  Comfortable, clean, and pleasantly exhausted, Kurt sneaked them down to the kitchen for cookies and milk.

"You're quiet," Kurt said, as they worked their way through a sleeve of Oreos.

"You kinda tapped me out." Blaine's mouth twitched into a smile, but it wasn't as bright as earlier ones.

"If we're—if this is moving too fast for you, I get it." Kurt tried to act casual, despite his pounding heart. "My situation isn't ideal." He sighed. "If Remy knew..."

Blaine wiped his mouth with a napkin, watching Kurt with attentive but hooded eyes. "I don't want you to feel pressured.  I'll take whatever you can give me.  For now."

Something about the exchange didn't sit right with Kurt.  

He put away the cookies and rinsed out their glasses, trying to pin down what it was he wanted—needed—to say.  He thought about how long they'd known each other.  He thought about how fast things had progressed once they'd revealed how they felt, and what a difference three days had already made between them.

He'd hesitated when it came to emotional honesty before and regretted it.  He never wanted to associate that emotion with Blaine, if he could help it.

"I'm in love with you," he said, into the silence.  He looked up at Blaine. "But I don't know what to do about that. I don't know if—if he'll let me go. And even if he did, I don't know what you want.  I'm not going to assume I'm what you want."

Blaine stared at him, his lips parted.  A gentle kind of panic settled over his features.  

Kurt frowned. "You don't feel the same way."

Blaine's visible panic morphed into even clearer pain.  Kurt had no idea what he was thinking.

"I do. I do feel the same way." Blaine's mouth twisted. "That's the problem."

That was not what Kurt wanted to hear. "I see." He looked away. "You—you know I don't want to leave him  _because_  of you, right?  You were a wake-up call, yeah, but I've wanted out for a long time."

"I know. Let me think.  Let me think and—I'll come to you when I can, okay?"

"Okay."

But nothing seemed okay; all Kurt felt was a new kind of fear.  

Was it already too late to avoid having his heart broken?

 

*

 

Kurt didn't see Blaine the following morning.  They had gone their separate ways after sharing cookies and confessions in the kitchen, thinking it would be safer to be in their own rooms in case Remy came home early.  It turned out to be a smart move, because that was exactly what happened.

Kurt took his time getting ready, treating it like any other morning, but Blaine was undeniably with him—in the pull of his sore muscles, the memory of the taste of Blaine's mouth, and the appearance of sunny smiles.  

Only when lunch approached did he go looking for company.  He walked deliberately slowly and quietly past Remy's office.  He stopped in his tracks when he heard raised voices—Blaine's among them.

"—no idea where this is coming from, sir.  I've been under your employ for over a year now and I've done nothing to warrant this kind of suspicion."

"You would do well to continue that streak.  I don't want to receive any more reports from the others about you wandering into rooms in the house you have no business being in, or extended errands with Kurt whose time frames don't match the activity you claimed to be engaging in."

"It's all conjecture and gossip, sir, to be frank.  Some of your men envy my position.  It's only natural, but I wouldn't want it to leave a stain on my character."

There was a pause, a shuffle, and the squeak of a desk chair.

"Enough. Bring Kurt to me.  I have news for him."

Kurt took a step back down the hallway.  He didn't want to see Remy yet—especially not in light of what he had just heard.  He wasn't eager to hear any news Remy had for him.

He waited around the corner for Blaine to leave Remy's office.  The look he saw on Blaine's face frightened him more than everything they'd discussed and done together in the past few days.  

He followed Blaine back to his room, words of careful inquiry on the tip of his tongue. He wasn't prepared for Blaine to pass him a piece of stationary with a message hastily scrawled on it.

"Your husband wants to see you.  Would you like me to walk with you?" Blaine asked.

The note read:

_He had me followed back to this room.  He was right behind you.  Can't talk. Ignore what I'm saying.  I need to speak to you privately.  When you see him, tell him you're going to the range today. I'll meet you by the car._

Kurt frowned. The fear he had felt listening to Remy and Blaine's conversation was multiplying by the minute, but he hated being in the dark more than he hated being afraid.  He lifted his shoulders, nodded, pressed his lips into a thin line, and left the room with a parting, "No, I'll go by myself. Thanks."

He saw the man Blaine had referred to mulling around at the end of the hallway, gave him a smile and a nod, and kept on walking.

He maintained that smile as he crossed Remy's office to lean over his desk and kiss him on the cheek. "There you are.  How was your trip?"

"Uneventful," Remy replied.  There was no return of his gesture of affection, but Kurt was used to that. "But I have good news.  That part you were passed over for last year?  The lead in Beedman's production?  I spoke to him over the weekend and he said the part is yours this time around, if you want it.  Rehearsal starts in six weeks.  You would have to relocate to the city for the duration, of course, but I'm sure you're anxious to go."

Kurt's heartbeat roared so loudly in his ears he almost didn't hear everything Remy said. Once the words filtered through, most of what he felt was suspicion.  Remy hadn't cared about his career for years.  Why the change of heart?  Why relax the boundaries he had set for Kurt long ago?  Most importantly, why did he suddenly want Kurt somewhere else?

Kurt almost asked "Will Blaine be coming with me?" before he realized how strange it would seem for the first thing to come to his mind after that announcement was concern for  _Blaine's_  future.

"That's—surprising." He tried to look as if he was containing his enthusiasm. "What changed his mind?"

"Does it matter?  I told him you would be in touch once you settled into the loft.  I'm having it cleaned and refurbished.  You should be ready to move in by the end of next month."

Icy numbness crept through Kurt's body.  He knew he couldn't refuse, and even the  _idea_  of freedom excited him.  But was it truly freedom, or Remy simply putting him where he wanted him yet again?

"I'll—thank you.  Of course I want to go.  This is very exciting." That earned him a rare smile, and for a brief moment he felt a pang of longing.  When had this man become someone he hardly knew?  Someone he couldn't feel safe around, much less love? "I'll be at the range this afternoon, if you need me."

Remy nodded, already busily tapping at his phone.

Kurt shuffled down the hall as quickly as he could without the appearance of haste. In his room, he changed into range-friendly attire, took his gun case from the closet, passed through the kitchen for a pair of water bottles, and met Blaine in the garage where their car was waiting.

He presented a note he had written on a Post-it to Blaine:

_Can we talk here?_

Blaine shook his head.  Kurt gave him a stiff nod in response.  They didn't speak aside from exchanging pleasantries until they were at the range, off to the side of the shooting area but close enough for their voices to be drowned out by the background noises of gun pops and the machines moving the targets back and forth.  There were only a handful of other patrons there, and Kurt didn't recognize any of them.

"What's going on?" Kurt asked, finally dropping the facade.

"There's an employee break room at the back of the office through that door.  It's safe to talk in there; I know the folks who run this place.  Follow me," Blaine replied.

The moment the door was locked and Blaine had made sure they were alone, he put his hands on Kurt's face and swallowed the first string of Kurt's protests with his lips. They kissed hungrily, a note of panic turning what would have normally been a sweet exchange sour.  Kurt broke away from Blaine to breathe, gather his thoughts, and tried not to become completely overwhelmed by the urge to latch back on and never let go.

Blaine pressed their foreheads together.  He was breathing unevenly and trembling.  Kurt wasn't sure if he could ever rationalize the Blaine who emerged during vulnerable moments with the confident but secretive man who had shadowed him for the last year.  Kurt realized they were indeed two distinct individuals.  He was also certain he was in love with them both, and would continue to be no matter what Blaine was about to say.

Blaine's fingers mapped his cheekbones, his jaw, and his lips. "I'm an undercover ATF agent investigating your husband."

Kurt's arms fell to his sides.  He stood up straighter and took a step back. "Oh my god."

"I was assigned to assess and potentially identify the sale of illegal arms.  Your husband was suspected to be a middle man, using his business as a cover.  Your role was unclear, but I was also told to investigate any part you might be playing or any knowledge you might have."

"Oh my god." Kurt bumped into the desk chair behind him. "You lied to me. You aren't even who you said you were." It felt like his heart was cracking into dozens of messy pieces. "Did—did you—did we—just so you could get closer to me?  To Remy?"

"No." Blaine fell to his knees in front of Kurt, scrabbling desperate hands up his thighs. "God, no, no, no, Kurt.  No." He exhaled brokenly. "Please look at me.  Please." Kurt looked, but barely.  Blaine's voice when he spoke next was strained, full of hurt. "I fell for you the moment I laid eyes on you.  I tried to stay away, but it was like—no matter what I did, we just kept circling each other, closer and closer until you—god, I never could've prepared myself for the way you made me feel." He squeezed Kurt's hands. "Nothing I told you about my life was a lie except for my profession and the current situation.  And—my superiors don't know we're involved.  If they found out, they would pull me off the assignment.  I don't want that.  I don't want to leave you, and I don't want them to have to replace me and lose a year's worth of work.  We're so close to arresting and charging him.  I just need a few more solid pieces of evidence."

Kurt bowed his head, trying to think.  Too many thoughts and eventualities were racing through his mind.  He wasn't surprised to learn Remy was up to no good, though the weapons aspect surprised him—he would have thought drugs before he thought guns.  But what did it matter?  Either way, Remy was bad news, and Kurt had felt it ever since they abandoned the city for a house in the country, and especially when Kurt was suddenly unable to have a career in the public eye for no discernable reason.

"He got me a part," Kurt said, dreamily, distantly. "He wants me in the city by the end of next month."

"He's suspicious of you.  He thinks you know what's going on.  He doesn't trust me anymore, either.  He's probably bugging our rooms as we speak." Blaine put his cheek on Kurt's hand. "I never wanted to put you in danger.  But I have a really bad feeling about him sending you back to the city."

"What do I do?  I don't even know who to trust anymore.  How do I know you aren't lying to me now?" Kurt wanted to—wanted to believe in the comforting warmth of Blaine's touch, in Blaine's steady, clear confession, and in his own instincts which screamed at him to get away from Remy.

Blaine stroked the delicate bones of his wrists. "If you're willing to come on board as a witness, I can introduce you to my team.  They'll protect you."

"I'd have to testify against—"

"Not necessarily, no.  It may never come to that.  We already have a very solid case against him.  But it would keep you safe.  And it would be a great help to us."

Tears swam in Kurt's eyes. His chest felt like it was being ripped in half. "I thought I knew you. Is your name even 'Blaine Anderson'?"

Blaine frowned. "Blaine is my middle name. Anderson was my mother's maiden name. I chose both to make the fiction easier. There are things you didn't know about me, that's true. But you _do_ know me. You know everything that matters." His throat closed up. His bottom lip quivered. "I love you, Kurt."

"I want to believe that.  I do. I just—"

Blaine nodded. "I understand.  Give me time and I'll prove it to you."

"If Remy thinks I'm in line with his marching orders, he'll leave me alone." Kurt touched Blaine's hands. "I should have some freedom, at least, until I leave.  I want to help.  But I need to know what you need me to do.  What I need to look out for." He rubbed his arms, which were suddenly cold. "I hate what he's doing.  I hate—hate being around him.  I want you to stop him, and I want out." He exhaled shakily. "But this—this thing between us, I'm not sure how it fits.  I'm scared of losing you, but I don't even know if I have you."

"I know." Blaine rubbed his arms. "But I can promise you two things: one, that you have me, without a doubt.  And two, that you're taking this better than most.  You're very strong." Kurt nodded, cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. "Let's go home.  I'll keep a close eye on things.  Don't avoid Remy, but don't crowd him, either.  He might find that unusual.  If I find out anything you need to know, I'll ask you to come here so we can talk."

"You said our rooms might be bugged..."

"It's likely, now that he's on alert.  I can sweep for surveillance devises, but I'll won't be able to guarantee our privacy in most of the rooms in the house now.  But there are some places in the house I can secure.  Areas in the basement and maybe the backyard.  I'll make sure we have somewhere inside we can meet and be alone."

Kurt supposed that had to be enough for now.

They walked outside of the range, completed a lap around the premises to give Kurt time to calm down and absorb everything Blaine had told him.  By the time they arrived home, Kurt felt more in control of himself. He had a month to assist Blaine's investigation and figure out his own situation.  He had the promise of protection once he moved to the city for the run of his show.  He knew Blaine was telling the truth about loving him.  None of this made his life any simpler, but they were things he could hold on to, at least.

 

*

 

Remy's birthday was two weeks after his return.  

They were having a simple but elegant party, one whose organization Kurt had surprisingly little to do with.  This was a first, and also a relief, because he didn't know if he had it in him to pull off a lavish event in Remy's honor.  He accepted the command to purchase for himself a new suit and get a manicure (neither a hardship in Kurt Hummel's world, though his enthusiasm was understandably dimmed).

Blaine's presence was constant but guarded.  They could no longer be themselves in most parts of the house.  

Kurt received a copy of the script for the show he had been cast in, and tried his best to be happy about it.  He buried himself in the memorization of dialogue.  He began to use the household gym twice daily again, and also made significant use of the dance studio, working diligently through the choreography the show called for.

At night, he became a spy.

Blaine asked him to copy the hard drive of a laptop Remy kept hidden in their bedroom. He passed on a stack of receipts Remy had tucked away in a desk drawer.  He shared bits of the conversations he had with Remy's associates. Before he even realized the scope of it, he was delivering intelligence on Remy to Blaine at least twice a week. They never had more than a few minutes to talk when they disappeared into remote destinations in the house, but they made it work.  Still, these meetings were work, not pleasure.  He missed Blaine—his Blaine—terribly.  For a few days he'd had laughing, beautiful, coming-apart-at-the-seams Blaine, and all he wanted was to find that man again and get lost in him, if only for an hour or two.

 

*

 

The afternoon before the party, Kurt was unusually distracted.  

He'd woken up that morning hard as a rock after dreaming of Blaine all night and had spent the hour before breakfast twisting on his own inadequate fingers, bent and panting, with his other hand around his cock.  

The party preparations were complete, down to his pressed suit hanging beneath plastic on the door of his armoire.  And so, after lunch, he guiltlessly retired to his room to continue what he'd started that morning.  He wrung orgasm after orgasm out of himself, until he couldn't feel anything but buzzed relaxation.  It was just what he needed; he'd barely touched himself in the last two weeks.

He didn't expect Blaine to perceive the nature of his mood, but when they met in the storage basement to talk about the party Blaine seemed as affected as Kurt was. It wasn't the end of the world for Blaine to let his professional mask slip a bit—the party was not an event of major concern for their work, though Blaine had said he hoped to mingle with several of Remy's associates who came when invited to gatherings but didn't live in the house.  Kurt simply had to look gorgeous, remain observant, hang on Remy's arm, and know when to disappear.

Blaine wasn't dressed for the party yet.  Kurt was. Something about Blaine scruffy, dressed down, and unable to take his eyes off of the lines of Kurt's suit was distracting Kurt to an embarrassing degree.  That they hadn't been intimate in weeks was certainly contributing. When Blaine turned to leave, Kurt grabbed his wrist.  

There was the briefest of moments when Blaine tensed, unsure, and was clearly ready to tell Kurt it wasn't a good idea for them to linger, to come so close to each other in the house.  But then Kurt's hand slipped in his and their fingers tangled, sending jolts of sensation up Kurt's arm.

Blaine groaned, turned, and held Kurt's face with his free hand, backing him up into a wall, using their threaded fingers to pin Kurt's arm above his head.  Kurt moaned into Blaine's mouth when their bodies lined up.

"I don't want to mess up your suit," Blaine whispered, pecking his mouth with kisses.

Kurt went to his knees on the concrete. "I don't care."

 

*

 

Remy hadn't been possessive in years.  

Kurt didn't know what to make of his clinginess, but supposed it had more to do with image than anything else; Remy certainly hadn't been affectionate in private since his return.  Like an obedient, accommodating husband, Kurt smiled and waved and engaged in conversation at Remy' side.  He danced with Remy, let Remy touch and kiss him, all while doing his best to memorize the names of people they interacted with and the vague but suggestive things Remy said to them.  He was sure it would come in handy when—

 _When_.  That was the big mystery, wasn't it?  When would this shit hit the fan?

He caught glimpses of Blaine over the course of the evening.  Blaine looked stunning in his perfectly tailored suit.  Every strand of his unruly hair had been tamed into submission.  His nails gleamed and his eyes were bright.  He seemed well-liked by everyone on Remy's payroll, but not in a way that drew attention to himself.  He was the perfect man to play out this kind of fiction.

They interacted only briefly over appetizer trays and at the open bar.  Kurt was expected to know Blaine fairly well; avoiding each other entirely wasn't necessary.

Every second spent gazing into those beautiful hazel eyes was worth the risk.  Their hands brushed over steak tartare and around champagne flutes.  Kurt would not go so far as to dance with Blaine, but they hummed the music to each other as they ate and drank and watched and waited, until finally Remy began to forget Kurt.  He danced with his guests.  He disappeared into side rooms with his associates and, with each return, seemed less and less concerned about locating Kurt.  Kurt had done his job.  Most of the partygoers were tipsy, drunk, or on their way, and his sparkling host act had lost its place among the crowd.  It was at this point during their parties when he usually began counting down the minutes until he could politely disappear.  But Blaine was looking at him from across the room with a hungry look in his eyes, and Kurt—Kurt had thought about this opportunity all week.  Remy was a hopeless drunk, sloppy and silly and forgetful.  Tonight, this worked to Kurt's advantage.

Over a drink refill, Blaine whispered in Kurt's ear, "Meet me in the second coat room? It's empty and secure."

Kurt felt the brush of Blaine's fingers across his, out of sight between their bodies. "Give me ten minutes." The words were barely audible.  His thoughts were sluggish with anticipation.

Over the next ten minutes, his heart made a valiant effort to find a way out of his chest.

He passed the time by making slow circuits around the room.  He gave the servers instructions on what food and drink to either put away or refresh.  He made sure no one needed an escort to a bathroom or guestroom.  Finally, enough time had passed since Blaine's exit. Remy was too drunk to notice Kurt's absence, in any case. 

Kurt slipped into the unused coat room and locked the door behind him.  The noise of the party faded but didn't disappear.  His clothing felt restrictive.  His skin was hot.  He barely felt the thick carpet muffling his steps.

Blaine's jacket was hung up, dangling alone amidst a sea of bare wooden hangers. Blaine sat on a foot stool in a pool of dim overhead lighting.  He was alert—had stood up the moment the door opened—but when he realized it was Kurt, his shoulders relaxed.

"It's locked?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Kurt—"

Kurt stripped off his jacket and tossed it over the rail of a low-hanging rack.  He was halfway through getting his cuffs undone when Blaine's fingers sunk into his hair and dragged him forward into an open-mouthed kiss.  They swallowed each other's moans and began kissing again, wet and quick.

"Blowing you was not enough." Kurt worked Blaine's belt open.  Blaine returned the favor, filling the still air of the small room with the noise of creaking leather and clanking metal. "I need you to know, I don't—I only did that because I knew you got tested.  I was, too, before we slept together.  I've only been with you since then."

Blaine stopped kissing him and tugging his dress shirt off long enough to reply, "I wasn't judging you, if that's what you're worried about."

Kurt twisted one hand into Blaine's hair and walked him backwards into the wall that made up the back of the closet, their designer slacks whispering as they moved against each other.  He pushed Blaine's underwear and pants down, hooked his fingers under Blaine's ass, and latched his mouth onto the skin beneath Blaine's ear.

"I'm telling you this because I want you to fuck me bare," Kurt confessed.  

Blaine groaned, pushed Kurt's pants down and stroked the naked expanse of his ass, finding wetness where he expected to find underwear. "You aren't wearing any—you—oh my  _god_ —"

Kurt whimpered and rubbed his cock against Blaine's hip.  He turned their bodies, placing himself belly-first against the wall and dragging Blaine's arms around his waist from behind. "Fuck me."

It felt so good to ask for it, to practically  _beg_  for it, knowing it was already his.

Blaine breathed heavily against the back of Kurt's neck; he was the perfect height to comfortably sink his teeth into the meat of Kurt's shoulder.  The pain was exquisite but brief.  Kurt bent his legs and spread them, pushing his ass against Blaine's cock.  They fumbled in semi-darkness, shoving shirts and dangling cuffs out of the way. Blaine's lips mapped every inch of skin he could reach, but in the end it was his fingers pulling on the hair at the back of Kurt's head that made Kurt lose it.  He  _ached_.

"Please—p-please!"

"Wanted to rip him off of you." Blaine grabbed Kurt's ass and massaged his cheeks in one broad stroke before spreading them apart.  Kurt was slick and stretched, his hole already clenching up. "Every minute he held you, every time he kissed you—" He pressed Kurt into the wall, turning his head by the grip on his hair, kissing up his jaw and finally claiming his mouth sideways, sucking at his lips and splitting them apart with his tongue.

"I know." Gasping, Kurt rocked himself back against Blaine's cock.

"Can't have you." Blaine raked his fingernails down Kurt's back. "Can't have you.  Doesn't know you, doesn't even—" He whined when Kurt's writhing pelvis managed to drive the head of his cock against Kurt's rim, moaned when it caught and stayed and Kurt puckered up around it.

"Yours," Kurt moaned, bending his back. "I'm yours.  I'm yours, I'm yours—oh, god,  _fuck me_."

Blaine drove him roughly up against the wall.  Kurt gripped the railing beside him, holding himself in place for the blunt, burning push of Blaine's cock.  He'd only reapplied the lubricant he had been using to keep himself stretched all night an hour ago.  It wasn't enough, but that wasn't about to stop him.  He spit in his hand and reached back to contribute to the moisture there, guiding Blaine's cock at a better angle.  He held it like a precious thing, cradling its heat and weight as he pressed himself down around it.  He felt in control, and giddy with the power of being able to undo Blaine simply with the roll of his hips.

When Blaine was completely buried in him, that control changed hands—Kurt was flat against the wall, shoved against it repeatedly as Blaine fucked him open. Offering himself up to Blaine like this was in and of itself a kind of power.  Knowing that made each thrust more delicious than the last.  Thrills of sensation raced up and down Kurt's thighs and petered out across his skin.  He breathed, let the noises come, let his ass relax, braces his arms against the expensive wallpaper and allowed Blaine to fuck him until it hurt.

He fell apart not a minute after Blaine squeezed his cock the first time, coming long and hard all over the wall in front of him, sobbing and pulsing around Blaine's cock.

"Fuck," Blaine gasped, hammering into him. " _Fuck_."

Kurt reached around to clasp Blaine's head to the nape of his neck, then turned his face until their cheeks were pressed together.  They were both so hot and sweaty it was almost uncomfortable to be that close, but Kurt reveled in it.  It felt perfectly filthy.  

He began jacking his hips backward, hard and choppy. "Come on." The noise of his body tapping the wall and Blaine's cock pumping in and out of his ass filled his ears. " _Come on_." He didn't have to ask for it—Blaine came inside of him for what felt like minutes, then kept going until neither of them could maintain the position.

Blaine gasped when his cock fell, sticky and softening, from Kurt's ass.  There was so much come that Kurt began to leak even before he could tighten up.  It dripped messily down his balls and the inside of his thighs.

"I can't," he panted, "can't put my pants back on now.  It'll show.  Shit."

Blaine kissed the rise of his shoulder. "I'll just have to clean up my mess, then."

" _Blaine_ —"

Kurt hadn't imagined Blaine on his knees behind him, licking up his own come—spreading Kurt's legs and digging into the abused little puff of his hole, encouraging him to push out, to give it all back,  _that's it, honey, god, look at what I did to you, want my tongue to make it feel better?_  It was almost as hot as the sex had been.

When it was over and Kurt was still tingling and shaking, Blaine kissed him and pressed the last bitter mouthful into Kurt's mouth with his tongue.  Kurt stiffened and groaned and swallowed it down.

Kurt's knocking knees and Blaine's arms pinning him to the wall were the only things keeping him upright.  He almost slid straight down the wall when his knees abandoned the game, but there were footstools in reach and Blaine was quick to drag two over for them to sit on.

They came down together in semi-darkness and silence, aware of the mess they'd made and not caring at all.  Blaine wouldn't stop kissing Kurt and smoothing his hair back.

"I'm almost done with my investigation," Blaine said. "After you leave for the city—when you're safe—we're going to take him into custody.  And once that's done, I'll come to you."

Kurt turned his face into Blaine's neck. "Don't make promises you can't keep. Please."

"This is going to work, honey.  We're going to be free of him.  Soon. Trust me.  Please, trust me."

"I do." Kurt kissed Blaine's knuckles, almost apologetically. "I just don't trust  _him_  to bow out gracefully."

 

*

 

The weeks before Kurt's move were like the calm before a storm.  Despite the danger inherent to the situation, he couldn't help being excited about going back to the city, about rehearsals and dramatic co-workers and theater gossip and the roar of applause.  That life was all he'd ever wanted, and the most important thing that had gone missing after he'd allowed Remy to move them upstate. Whether the fallout of Remy's arrest ruined Kurt's career or Kurt and Blaine couldn't make it work between them, Kurt would continue to perform and rebuild.  He was proud to be the man he had fought to become, as well as the man his father had raised.  He was eager to shake off the last few years like a fever dream and move on with his life.

So he packed his bags and ran lines and worked out and didn't allow his heart to beat out of his chest every time Blaine smiled at him or kissed him or whispered in his ear, no matter how badly it seemed to want to.

In the end, there was very little he wanted to bring with him.  His wardrobe and personal toiletries, of course.  The hope chest he'd had since childhood, which held memories and sentimental belongings.  It was fitting that everything related to Remy was kept in a separate box—but he brought that, too, because it would look suspicious if he didn't.  He wasn't bringing any of the cars Remy had bought him over the years—a car would be impractical in the city.  Piece by piece, his life filled the back of a sleek moving truck.

Ironically enough, Remy was absent without warning the morning of the move.  Kurt was relieved.

"Call me when you get into the neighborhood.  And when you get to the loft.  And before you go to sleep," Blaine said.  He couldn't say more, and doing so would have been unnecessary—they had discussed these check-ins at length.  In addition to that precaution, another undercover agent would be playing escort and bodyguard until Blaine completed Remy's arrest and transfer to the ATF offices in New York.

Blaine helped Kurt pack the last of his things and was there when the car Kurt had hired to drive behind the moving truck arrived.  It wasn't safe for them to exchange the goodbyes they wanted to, but Kurt sunk into Blaine's arms and buried his face in Blaine's hair and breathed him in as deeply and for as long as he could.  

From instant attraction to bottomless lust and through a lapse in trust that led to the dogged determination to build something out of jagged pieces, they had managed to fall in love with each other.  It wasn't the romantic escape fantasy it had been over that glorious weekend—it was better.  It was  _real_ , and it had only just begun.

 

*

 

Being back in the city was like being reborn and coming home at the same time.  

Kurt happily floated through the drive and the parade of boxes marching up the service stairs and into the loft he and Remy had lived in while they were dating.  Despite that association, Kurt loved the place; he had made good memories there—he loved the layout and the location as much as he loved the person he'd been then.  Knowing Remy would never step foot inside the loft again helped maintain the fondness of his recollections.

Sam, an associate of Remy's Kurt had always liked and was then aware of his and Blaine's relationship had been revealed to Kurt as the second undercover ATF agent.  Sam frequently accompanied Remy on business trips, so his assistance with Kurt's move drew no attention.  When the moving men finished, Sam stayed behind with Kurt.  He swept the loft from top to bottom, and after he declared the place safe, Kurt convinced him to stay for dinner (the delivery process gave him security concerns, but the lure of pepperoni helped smooth things over).

They waited anxiously for news of Remy's arrest.  Around ten o'clock, Kurt suggested Sam make himself comfortable on the sofa for the night.  Sam politely accepted, but insisted he would not go to sleep until he was relieved by the back-up agent Blaine had assigned to cover for him, should that become necessary.

They sat on the sofa drinking coffee to keep Sam awake.

"Blaine's an amazing agent." Sam's eyelids were dipping. "He's got all the good stuff, charm and smarts, but he also really cares, you know?  He's always super invested in his cases."

Kurt's neck grew hot. "I've noticed."

"Oh." Sam looked vacantly concerned. "I didn't mean it like, he always gets  _involved_ —no, no, man—"

"It's okay." Kurt laughed. "I know what you meant.  And I know how Blaine feels about me."

"He loves you a lot." Sam smiled. "It's a good thing.  I'm happy for you guys."

In between one pot of coffee and the next, they fell asleep on the couch together.

 

*

 

Kurt was awakened by the noise of glass breaking and knew instantly something was wrong. The weight distribution on the couch was off; Sam wasn't there, and there was no reason for that to happen unless—

"You fucking rat," came a snarl from across the room.  Standing in a shower of broken glass stood Remy, wearing a rumpled suit and holding a gun.  Sam was sprawled unconscious across the floor at his feet, a bleeding gash on his temple. "Did you think you could sing like a fucking canary and I wouldn't find out?"

Kurt remained still. "I haven't done anything." He looked around for something he could use as a weapon, but the closest object was a coffee mug and it wouldn't do much, even if he managed to get close enough to use it.

Remy raised the gun to Kurt's forehead. "Bullshit.  I've been watching you two all day.  I heard everything."

Kurt was frozen in fear.  What could he do to convince Remy to not pull that trigger?

"I wasn't going to take care of you until your run was over." Remy took a step forward, glass crunching under his expensive Italian boots.  He stalked across the room. "Make it look like suicide, or an accident.  It would have been so easy to push you off the fire escape or slip something into your champagne.  Or maybe put you in bed with some twink trying to fuck his way out of the chorus and blame it on a crime of passion." He scowled at the look on Kurt's face. "Oh, don't act so surprised.  You picked your side.  You had to know it would end like this."

Kurt spoke softly in an attempt to keep Remy calm. "Yeah, I figured you were doing business under the table.  The money, the house, the cars—what else could it have been?  But I don't have  _proof_  of anything."

"Don't insult my intelligence.  I saw you with this one.  I saw you with that doe-eyed little shit who's been drooling after your ass since day one.  I know they aren't legit.  I just don't know who's backing them.  But when I find out, they'll suffer a lot longer than you will.  That's a promise you're free to take with you."

Kurt's whimpered, unable to suppress the noise before it broke.  He was terrified.  He didn't want to die like that.  He didn't want Remy to win.  He wanted to see Blaine's beautiful face again.  He wanted to  _fight_.  

"You don't want to do this." As he spoke, he closed the distance between them with his hands raised in surrender.  He made a casual show of bending down to check Sam's injury.  With his head blocking Remy's view, he tucked a large piece of broken glass against his forearm.  He stood slowly, trying to appear docile.

"It's just business, Kurt." Remy's handsome face twisted into a grimacing countenance Kurt didn't recognize.  His name was spat like a curse. "You've been holding me back for years."

The barrel of the gun was so close Kurt felt the air it disturbed.  Only then did he move, letting the shard of glass slide between his fingers.  Without allowing himself to think, he slammed it into Remy's belly and twisted as hard as he could.  His world narrowed to his heartbeat roaring in his ears, the sound of screams, the warm gush of blood over his hands and then, bringing everything to terrifying halt, the noise of the gun going off.

The front door to the loft slammed open, hitting the opposite wall.

Blaine shouted "Drop the weapon!" and then, "Drop the weapon or I will shoot!"

Remy darted away. Kurt relaxed for a fraction of a second when the gun moved away from him—but then it was aimed at Blaine, and that was so much worse.  He screamed Blaine's name.

He was dizzy. Why was he so dizzy?  

He looked down and saw blood—his own blood—seeping through the side of his shirt. He couldn't feel pain, but he knew he should.  He fell to his knees.  The world in front of him grew fuzzy and distant.

The last thing he heard before he slid down into darkness was Blaine shouting his name.

 

*

 

He woke up in the hospital three days later.  

The first face he saw belonged to a nurse taking readings from a machine beeping at his bedside. A moment later he was overcome with pain—shocking waves of unpleasant, breathtaking pain—and he made a noise.

The nurse smiled at him. "Good afternoon, Mr. Hummel.  How are you feeling?"

He managed to communicate a repetitive string of  _ow's_  without making complete fool of himself.  His doctor arrived shortly after and told him he'd suffered a flesh wound—the bullet had nicked his side, resulting in blood loss but no permanent damage.  She went on to say he had been lucky—a few inches to the left and it would have been a different story.  All Kurt wanted to know was what had happened after he passed out.  He started asking questions about Sam and Blaine and Remy, and she told him Blaine had gone downstairs to eat a meal only moments before he'd woken up and they would have someone let him know Kurt was awake.

Knowing Blaine was unharmed and with him, combined with the wonderful drugs they began pumping into his system, hit him hard—he started crying before he could get ahold of himself.  That was how Blaine found him.

"Oh, honey." Blaine sat down in the chair beside his bed and touched his hands and face. "How are you doing?  Did they give you something for the pain?"

"Yeah, yeah." Kurt tried to gather his thoughts, but the words weren't coming out the way he wanted them to.  It was easier to communicate through the needy grip of his fingers around Blaine's. "Sam okay?"

Blaine smiled. "He is, yeah.  Guilty as hell and on probation for the lapse in following procedure, but okay."

Kurt wanted to defend Sam, but couldn't summon the focus. "What happened?"

Blaine began a recounting that was almost mechanical. "You stabbed Remy.  He shot at you—would have killed you if you hadn't been as quick as you were.  I asked him to put down his weapon.  I didn't realize you had been shot until you fell.  Remy must have realized then he wasn't going to get out of the situation. He was bleeding out, and I had him pinned." He squeezed Kurt's hand. "He put the gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger."

Kurt closed his eyes, tears sliding down his cheeks.  He didn't know what to feel.  Guilt and regret and pain and relief rushed through him, and in the end relief remained, lifting a weight the size of a boulder off his chest.

"He's dead."

Blaine nodded. "He's dead.  The good news is, the incident gave us cause to arrest his right hand man, and he gave up the operation in exchange for reduced jail time.  My team is dismantling it as we speak."

"Why—why aren't you—doing it.  Getting credit."

"I am." Blaine smiled. "I did, I mean.  Get credit. But I'm done.  I penned my resignation two days ago."

"W-why?" Kurt was starting to feel sleepy.  Blaine's face blurred in his vision.

Blaine kissed his knuckles. "Because my heart was never in it.  Because you showed me something better."

"Blaine.  _Blaine_..."

"Shh. Go to sleep, honey."

 

*

 

The loft was a crime scene, so Kurt had to find another place to live.  He didn't mind that, for obvious reasons; he had no desire to go back there, and every intention of selling it as soon as he was permitted to.  With Blaine's help, it wasn't long before he was settled in a small but charming apartment close to the theater.

Recovery was slow, irritating, and painful, but the theater was willing to let him start rehearsal late and take over for his understudy halfway through the run, considering the ordeal he'd been through.

Blaine was present throughout the process, nursing Kurt and doing for him, until Kurt asked him to slow down and back off a little, because it was too much and Kurt felt like a smothered invalid.  He was also concerned with how blankly sufficient Blaine had been since he came home from the hospital, and worried Blaine might be hiding behind the role of nursemaid to avoid addressing his own reaction to the trauma they'd experienced.

Kurt didn't have to wait long for that to come to a head.  

He was changing his bandages one night before bed, wincing and holding onto the edge of the bathroom sink, when Blaine came in to help, took one look at him, and began to cry.

Kurt frowned. "It doesn't hurt, not really.  I'm okay.  It's kind of a cool scar, actually?" When Blaine only sobbed harder, he realized Blaine's outburst had nothing to do with the scarring. "Oh.  Oh, god.  Come here."

They sat together on the bathroom rug, Blaine tucked into his arms like a child.  Kurt combed his fingers through Blaine's hair until his sobs subsided.

"I almost lost you," Blaine whispered. "You—he almost  _killed_  you, and there was nothing I could do."

Kurt asked the question he'd wanted to since he woke up in the hospital. "Did you resign because of what happened?"

"No," Blaine replied. "I resigned because I saw all of that go down and I knew I didn't belong there.  I'd never belonged there." He exhaled roughly through his nose. "My dad was a hero in that organization.  I tried to fill his shoes.  I thought it was my duty.  I thought it was the only way I could make a difference."

Kurt nodded and wrapped his arms around Blaine. "When I was younger, I had this—problem. With letting go of negative experiences. With holding grudges.  With acknowledging that it was okay to make mistakes.  It took a while, but eventually I learned how to change the part of myself that held on so tightly.  Not because I was trying to become this miraculously well-adjusted person, but because living in the past was  _exhausting_."

Blaine smiled through his tears. "Can't argue with that."

"That's my angle, is what I'm trying to say.  I want to get over it.  I want to be on stage." He pressed a wicked smile to Blaine's. "And I really,  _really_  want to get back to having ridiculous amounts of sex with you."

Blaine's laughter was worth every minute of the discomfort of sitting on the floor.

 

*

 

Kurt's half-run of the show was wildly successful.  His agent managed to turn his life with Remy into a massive and—most importantly— _free_  streak of publicity that worked in, not against, his favor.  Before long he was hip-deep in book and movie deal offers—none of which he accepted, but whose rejections also worked in his favor, making the industry that much hungrier for his work—and could take his pick of theater gigs.  Doors were opening for him left, right, and center, and none of that cost him his freedom or integrity.

His relationship with Blaine was kept quiet, at least in the beginning.  They wanted some measure of privacy as they got to know one another.  That didn't last, of course—it only took a few paparazzi photos and tabloid stories to garner them the attention they didn't want, and once the part Blaine had played in Kurt's ordeal was revealed, the romantic side of the tragedy took Kurt's fan base by storm.  There was a fresh surge of interest in turning their story into a film, television series, or novel.  Kurt came up with brand new ways of saying no without actually saying no (his agent's words, not his).

Blaine attended Kurt's closing night openly, sitting front row center with flowers in his hands and a smile on his lips.  When Kurt thanked Blaine briefly at the end of his closing speech the audience went wild. As Kurt walked off the stage, he could almost  _feel_  videos being uploaded to hundreds of YouTube accounts.

After making an appearance at the wrap party, Blaine took him out for a private dinner.

"I don't know, sir," Kurt said, in playful protest. "Should I be keeping you up this late?  You have class tomorrow."

Blaine had gone back to school to finish his performing arts degree.  They'd argued for weeks about finances until Kurt had grown tired of the banter.  The portion of Remy's estate Kurt had inherited after the case had been settled in court was enough to support them both for a very long time.  Kurt asked Blaine to swallow his pride and let him take care of things for once.  Blaine hadn't breathed a word to the contrary since.

"That's a terrible shame, because my plans for us this evening extend into the wee hours." Blaine twirled him around the private patio they were dining on—it wasn't much of a dance floor, but Blaine made any space worth dancing in.

"Ambitious," Kurt said.

"Mm.   _Confident_."

"Presumptuous."

Blaine kissed his neck. "Experienced."

Kurt laughed, his face growing hot.  He couldn't argue with that.  Blaine had become creative during the convalescent period of his recovery, inventing new ways to satisfy him without bothering his wound.

"I think you win," Kurt whispered in his ear.

Blaine kissed him, soft and slow. "I think we both win."


End file.
